


Dureri De Dragoste

by Atulreiter



Series: Monochrome Triad [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: (Are we even surprised by this), Cybertronian!Reader - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Energy Field Sexual Interfacing, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Jazz Is Difficult, Jazz Overcomplicates Everything, M/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, You're Just Going With the Flow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atulreiter/pseuds/Atulreiter
Summary: Jazz has shared a berth with you for a long time now. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement between friends that he insisted was never going to develop into anything serious. You believed him. Jazz was always a flighty mech after all, so what reason did you have to assume otherwise? You were content despite knowing that at any time it could be shattered with a single word. No one ever expected that word to come from you. And it was all Prowl's fault. (Basically, Jazz is a miserably jealous, oblivious ass that can't understand why he's so pissed and heartbroken when you decide to try out your luck at true love with the new arrival, Prowl.)





	1. And So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> I don't have much of a greeting set up for this fic since it was supposed to come out third in this new series I'm working on. Somehow it managed to develop itself _way_ before its (at least two) predecessors which is honestly perfectly fine considering the stories don't follow any chronological order anyway. They're also not going to build directly off of each other so their order _really_ doesn't matter. 
> 
> Adding anything more would just turn into rambling so I'll leave it here until my thoughts are less jumbled. Thanks for checking this out and I hope you enjoy it!

            Jazz was a strong mech. He was smart, intelligent, undeniably good-looking, and insanely popular. He was irrefutably an optimist. He could find fun or at least a silver lining in every situation. Mecha relied on him. In this Primus-forsaken war, Jazz was a pillar of strength—a beacon of hope who managed to inspire people to keep fighting and keep trying. To keep smiling and laughing and hoping and dreaming. He was energetic, lively and yet at the same time easy-going and not quick to anger or sadness. Still, not being quick to such things did not mean that he never felt them. Sometimes, too much was simply too much and now was one of those times.

            Usually, when he wasn’t feeling quite himself, he snuck off to be alone. Listening to a couple of albums for a few joor was often enough to settle him. He still didn’t want to be around mecha at that point but he’d no longer feel like he would spontaneously combust.

            It wasn’t working though.

            All the tracks seemed too infuriatingly _happy_. He didn’t want to sing or dance. He wanted to fragging _kill_ someone. His plating rattled with the barely contained desire to do so—a desire that he knew he wouldn’t be able to give in to. There was always a chance in the next battle but for Jazz that was too far away. He needed revenge _now_. They almost took one his mecha away from him and they needed to _pay_ for it.

            Planning out how he’d offline mecha was often his backup plan for when his music made him angry. He willingly gave into the urge and yet quickly fell short. Despair filled his spark when he realized he didn’t even know exactly which ‘Con had done it. The battle had been too chaotic for even Jazz to navigate. Acknowledging this failure sent another stab of pain through his frame that left the saboteur wanting to scream.

            How could he properly plan an execution when he didn’t even know who he was going to offline?! He needed specifics if his reprisal was going to mean anything but there was no way to get them. Offlining every Decepticon certainly had its appeal but that wasn’t the goal of this war. 

            The thought made his shoulders slump. The rage and bloodlust rushed out of his system, replaced with an all-encompassing sadness and self-loathing. He shouldn’t be thinking this way. Autobots were supposed to be the good ones. They were supposed to always try to do the right thing, not sit around devising planetary destruction just because something bad happened. Not for the first time was the little black and white mech thankful for his visor.

 

            ‘Primus, Ah'm a mess right now,’ he thought to himself as he struggled to keep his optics from overflowing. The visor wouldn’t be worth slag with tear tracks on his faceplates.

             He really just wanted a fragging hug from someone. Like a really big one that wouldn’t end with the mech judging him or criticizing him or expecting anything from him later. Jazz loved his Autobots and he was on good terms with almost all of them but he didn’t explicitly trust them with his vulnerabilities. He often wondered how they were so comfortable bestowing that level of trust upon him. He suspected they just didn’t have the same things to worry about that he did.

            They all worried about offlining, of course. They all worried about the war and energon and resources and who was going to win that next bet but not _everyone_ had to worry about assassination attempts. Not _everyone_ suspected someone was constantly watching them, waiting for him to slip up; to make a mistake that would cost him not only his but countless others’ their lives. He’d almost made such a mistake today and slag it if the reminder didn’t continue to torture him.

            His lieutenant, Dropkick, was in stasis. Oh, the medics were trying their hardest to bring him back around. They say he’s not been down long enough to start worrying and yet Jazz couldn’t stop the panic that constantly threatened to consume him.

            He really needed a break. He needed to cool down—to relax.

            He also needed his frame to stop shaking so badly he could barely move. Sitting sounded like a good idea.

            His frame definitely knew what he needed before Jazz did. When he finally clued back into his surroundings, he realized he’d already made his way to the mess hall. It was a hot spot for lower-ranking soldiers who bunked together. Most of the senior members and officers had their own personal quarters and so didn’t often need to make the trip down unless they were feeling social. Needless to say, Jazz was a _very_ common presence.

            It wasn’t open. Everyone was expected to have finished refueling by now. That didn’t mean mecha couldn’t still go there to sit and chat anyway. They usually didn’t, of course. Interest in the building was limited to when it was serving energon. Otherwise soldiers went off to find better things to do with their time. He was eternally grateful.

            That meant he could go in there, find the smallest, darkest corner he possibly could and waste away. Or at least avoid the world until it was time to start working again.

            There was only one other mech in the entire building when Jazz opened one of the many doors. He wasn’t surprised to find that it was you.

            You had to be at once the most social and anti-social mech he’d ever met. When you wanted to be around people, you had a swarm of them following, calling out to you, and asking for your time. When you didn’t, you disappeared with the same efficiency as that one new recruit with the weird distruptor. You didn’t answer messages, you ignored your comm, and you genuinely made yourself inaccessible to the general public. No one could find you when you wanted to be alone which made Jazz take comfort in his choice in hiding places. He supposed the fact that you ignored everyone for such long stretches was precisely why they swarmed you so heavily when you decided to step back into the light.

            Your popularity wasn’t in the same category as Jazz’s, though. Jazz was everyone’s best friend. You were everyone’s carrier. They went to Jazz for fun and distractions and gossip. They turned to you for advice and comfort and peace. All three of which, Jazz needed desperately.

            He was still mentally debating on whether or not he wanted to approach you when he realized his pedes had already taken him over. It was very clear to Jazz that he was running on base coding at this point. It usually happened on the battlefield when things were going too quickly for him to waste time on thinking. The saboteur relied on his instincts a great deal—they saved his life so many times he knew better than to question them—so when his core coding prompted him to claim your lap he didn’t protest.

            He was surprised by your lack of response.

            That was perhaps not the best choice of words because you did react just not in the way he expected.

            He was waiting for you to laugh and question what he was doing. He wouldn’t have put anger passed you either considering the strangeness of his actions. (Though not as strange for Jazz as it would be for other mecha so he let that one go.) He noticed the two holoscreens open before you at the table. He expected you’d be at least a little miffed that he’d interrupted whatever it was you were working on.

            You weren’t.

            You simply shifted to accommodate both him and your desire to keep tapping away at your portable console.

            Your arms—mostly black but heavily detailed with bright white and rich (color)--came up and around on either side of him, caging him in against your flat, white-veined, black chassis. You were similar in height though your torso was longer than his—you had no problem seeing over his helm. Satisfied, you went back to work. You did this all so easily, so automatically, that Jazz was positive he wasn’t the first mech you’d done this for.

            Jazz, encouraged upon receiving no negative reaction, turned a bit more towards you and held your (color) shoulders in his black servos. You were warm and the quiet but very strong oscillations of your spark were easy to both hear and feel. His frame went lax against yours.

            He could understand perfectly now why mecha craved to be around you. He could no longer find humor in your status as the soldiers’ adoptive carrier despite being younger than almost everyone else on base. This was simply amazing. He felt his body shutting down and preparing for recharge and he’d only been with you maybe a breem.

            No doubt a lot of it had to do with the stresses of the day. He was exhausted.

            Still, there was something to be said about the deep-rooted peace you induced that hammered away viciously at his anxiety. He felt safe especially since you clearly didn’t mind and had so obviously done this before for other mecha—others who Jazz had never learned about which spoke volumes about your confidentiality. For the first time in a long time Jazz felt _safe_.

            The tears were pouring long before he took note of them. He was too tired to try and hide them. As embarrassed as he was, Jazz found he could do little but bury his faceplates into your neck and let them out. They increased when one of your (color) servos landed on his upper back, just underneath the base of his black helm.

            You exvented lightly and tipped your (color) helm down to regard your latest responsibility though you did nothing else for the moment. You intended to let the Polyhexian deal with his emotions on his own. Jazz wasn’t known for his silence so you’d assumed he’d start talking when he was ready--if he _ever_ wanted to. It wasn’t at all uncommon for mecha to simply cry it out and then pretend like nothing ever happened. Sometimes a good cry was all a mech really needed, that and a nice shoulder.

            It didn’t take long for him to slip into a light recharge. It never did when mecha cried so hard. You didn’t disturb him, not until it was very late and you grew tired yourself. Even then you were reluctant.

            Still, he must’ve sensed the subtle change himself because a moment later his visor was brightening and he started shifting against you. He still seemed very despondent but he no longer made you feel like he was battling with instability. You smiled as brightly as you could at this later hour and nudged him with your field, “Alright now?”

 

            Embarrassment coursed through his field so quickly he actually locked up.

 

            “What was wrong?” You inquired so softly he barely heard it over his wheezing systems.

 

            He flinched--whether at your voice or your question, you didn’t know. Jazz for his part was debating on whether or not he was going to tell you. He wasn’t a particularly trusting mech and, while you and he were great friends (one of the few people he’d actually label as ‘friend’ on his own lists and not just for public approval), he wasn’t sure he wanted to drop his baggage with you. You clearly weren’t one for gossip if _Jazz_ didn’t even know for sure who came to you but that didn’t stop him from hesitating. For the fourth time tonight, however, his spark decided he was taking too long. He was already speaking before he’d decided to do so.

            This was why he went off by himself when he was emotionally drained. He couldn’t think straight and usually ended up doing things he wouldn’t normally.

 

            “…Dropkick’s in tha medical center…” Both of you studiously ignored how absolutely horrible he sounded. You merely hummed your agreement, encouraging him to continue on.

 

            Dropkick was a tall, violet-colored noblemech which was ironic considering his designation. He was graceful as was to be expected given both his background and function within the Autobot army. He was also one of Jazz’s biggest admirers. You weren’t surprised Jazz took it so hard.

 

            “It shouldn’t’ve happened…,” Jazz continued absently. You didn’t like the vague look on his faceplates but you were pleased to note he was more focused on speaking than breaking down. It was a good sign that the worst was over. “Dropkick wasn’t s’posed ta be in tha area at all. Ah couldn’t figure out how’ta get the Autobots back tha advantage so we decided to go while we still could. Me’n Cloud-9 stayed behind like we usually do ta make sure everybot got away okay. Ah guess we took longer than usual. Mech got worried’n came back…”

 

            “Is he going to be okay?”

 

             “Ratchet says so. He went into stasis but ‘e says it wasn’t long enough ta do any real damage. He’s got a couple holes and ‘e def’nitely won’t be moving around for a while but…”

 

             “Well, that’s good at least. Ratchet’s the best there is. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

 

            Jazz pouted. You resisted the urge to smile at the familiar expression. He was certainly feeling much better than he likely thought he was if he was going to start doing _that_ , “It was just a lot to deal with at once, mech. The ‘Cons--”

 

            “You don’t have to explain it to _me_ , Jazz. I know exactly what you’re talking about.” You were an Autobot but you rarely fought. You were in charge of the base’s upkeep, namely the supplies since the disciplinary officers liked to use cleaning as a punishment. Still, Protihex was a large base and combine that with your double position as the unofficial guidance counselor and well...more often than not you were feeling pretty ragged yourself.

            Your weary tone of voice tore a laugh from the saboteur that he wasn’t quite ready to share yet. As a result it died quickly but it took the rest of the negative feelings Jazz had with it. His smile came easier than he expected when he finally rose off your lap and watched you loosen your tense cables with admittedly erotic groans and engine purring, “A good frag would do ya good.”

 

            You dropped your servos with a harsh click of your vocalizer and rose to your pedes, “You offering?”

 

            Jazz’s visor flashed in surprise, “It’s definitely an int’restin’ idea. I get the feelin’ ya ain’t serious ‘bout it though.”

            It was your turn to stall in wonder. You paused in gathering up your computers to consider the mech in front of you much like Jazz had done only a few moments prior.

            You really were a very pretty mech. Your frame was less streamlined than Jazz’s own. Your black torso triangulated into your pelvic plating, the perception of dramatic curves helped along by the diagonal white arcs and stripes that all pointed towards your core. The design drew a lot of attention to your mostly black pelvic plating, particularly the fancy (color) pyramid that was your spike cover. In fact, now that Jazz was really looking, he dared to say it pointed right at it; like an elaborate, segmented, abstract, white arrow. There was heavy (color) paneling outlined in white at the sides of your hips that made them seem wider. It was a similar situation at your shoulders. They weren’t there now but Jazz knew the missing gaps were for two huge shoulder-mounted rifles. The white detailing seemed to be limited to your chassis. There were only a few, thin, contouring lines down the length of your legs towards your black and white pedes. Those were much smaller than Jazz’s own—smaller than any other Cybertronians’ Jazz had ever seen actually. It made sense for you to separate your legs a bit. There was really no other way to distribute your weight. Your helm was (color) with a black band welded around the circumference. A (color) diamond-shaped slab of metal sat in the middle of your forehelm amidst the black ring. Your (dark/light) faceplates were home to large Autobot-blue optics and a small grin.

 

            “I don’t do one-night stands.”

 

            Alarms immediately went off in Jazz’s helm. His field subconsciously pulled itself in tight to his frame, “Ah don’ do relationships, mech. Ah’m sorry.”

 

            You were clearly displeased. The small smile dropped into a firm line but you weren’t too put off. You already knew that much about Jazz anyway. The mecha he slept with weren’t stationed on the base. It saved him a lot of drama when he decided to move on. No one to avoid at work or pretend not to see on the battlefield. It said enough that he was seriously considering you.

            Still, you yourself weren’t of the promiscuous sort and you didn’t share yourself with those who were. Interfacing was nice but it wasn’t something you had an active desire for--not enough to have a long list of berthmates. Still, Jazz was very attractive track record aside and you _were_ very curious. If he could compromise on one of his rules then surely you could bend a little on yours, “I know. I’m offering an exclusive continuation without the contract.”

 

            That predictably brought that lovely sensual half-smile to his faceplates. His engine, a slightly louder and stronger variety than your own, started purring, “Ya mean we stay friends but hook up when we need ta.”

 

            “Exactly. Please mark the ‘exclusive’ bit? I--”

 

            “No worries, mech. This ain’t the first time Ah’ve done somethin’ like this.” He crossed quickly to you, the speed with which he moved startling you and almost making you drop back down into your chair. The firm push against your chassis actually did reseat you. Jazz reclaimed his position on your lap, straddling you easily as your servos came up to rest on his hip struts. His grip on your shoulders tightened noticeably, “Just so we’re clear, this isn’t a pity frag.”

 

            The intensity that suddenly poured out from him would have made a Decepticon cry. You, however, simply glared at him, “Of course not. Why would I be against just interfacing once if it were?”

 

            “Good ta know.”

 

            You waited for him to get off you so you could either lead him to your room or follow him to his quarters. You were entirely caught off guard by his sudden grinding. His fingers were quick to find the gaps in your armor and you gasped when a wire in your abdomen was tweaked, “Wait, _here_?”

 

            He flashed you that enticing grin again, “Problem?”

 

            You huffed in amusement, “No.” The prospect of interfacing in the mess hall would only add to your pleasure. There was a distinct thrill in going at it in public even if no one was currently here. It released a flash of excitement through your body that, combined with Jazz’s grinding and tweaking, left you more than ready to go. You tapped pointedly at his hips and he lifted obligingly. “It’s going to have to be quick. I need to get at least one joor of recharge in before the morning shifts.”

 

            “Yer lucky. I’ve only got energy for somethin’ small.” He hummed when your fingers found their way to his valve covering, tracing over it with provocatively light touches. Thousands of tiny specks of charge crawled up his frame from your actions. It was just barely enough for him to feel, enough to make him squirm with how it sporadically raised his charge but not nearly enough to satisfy. He glanced down into your face and growled at the playful look he found.

            He jerked his hips backwards harshly in an attempt to force your servo. Pain flared in his lower back from the table edge he’d ignored until now. It was of little consequence. Jazz had better things to concern himself with. “Didn’t ya just say ya had ta get ta rechargin’? Stop teasin’!”

 

            “Just because it has to be quick doesn’t mean it can’t be fun. Besides, _you’re_ the one who still hasn’t opened his panel. Why don’t _you_ stop teasing _me_?” Amusement fell over Jazz in a heavy wave. He pressed deeply against your pressurized spike in an attempt to dispel it. You only mewled, mouth still stretched into a grin around the sound. His charge leapt at how good that expression made you look.

            Frustrated and not just a little needy, Jazz finally snapped his valve covering aside. He moaned loudly when your fingers pressed firmly against his rim. His white thighs trembled against yours when you started up that infernal tracing. Your other servo rose to stroke his face, “Relax. You’re not wet enough, ye--”

 

            “Don’ care. Put it in…” he whined. He jolted suddenly and managed to get the tips of your fingers to slip inside. You gasped at how forcefully he tightened down on your digits. Imagining it around your spike, especially the heat in comparison to the drafty room, was enough to entice you to speed things along.

            He literally snarled at you when you pulled away from him completely. His back stiffened and he angled his hips to try and get you to go deeper but the fragging table was making things a little difficult. Honestly this was all a bit too much for him. His emotions were still rather raw and he was craving more than anything the connection you promised but were currently denying him. He felt the tears starting to build up behind his optics again and flared his field in distress, “[Name], please--”

 

            “Easy, Jazz. Just a moment…”

 

            The table really was becoming a nuisance at this point and so was the chair. Any other time you would have taken the position for what it was: Jazz’s legs were folded into the remaining spaces on either side of your own black thighs. He would not be able to easily ride you but you could easily press up into him.

            Still, you didn’t think it was the best idea at the moment. Sure, you’ve been long overdue for an overload but Jazz clearly needed something more from it than you did. You wanted him to be able to control how this first encounter went—to get what he sought—so you shimmied down further into the chair. You kept at it until his pedes ghosted the floor, using your servos to pull him up until his clenching valve was level with your spike.

 

            “Okay, you can—ah!Sl-fzzzzscch!”

 

            “ _Yes…!_ ” Jazz moaned loudly and tossed his helm back as his valve opened around your spike. Pits! You were going to tell him he could have it but he went ahead and took it before you could even get the words out! Your vocalizer gave over to static as he seated himself on your spike over and over again, hissing at the intoxicating pull of his valve over your sensitive metal. “Yes, yes, yes, _yes_!”

 

            The word seemed to lose its meaning in your processor as he continued to shout it into the silence of the mess hall. Your fans clicked on as your charge continued to mount. His erotic movements coupled with his incredibly tight valve swiftly pushed you to the brink. He was moving so much faster than you’d imagined anyone could in this position. Just watching him could have done it for you but you needed to hold out so you offlined your optics. Whatever he was seeking, he needed to get before you accepted release.

            You could hear his engine straining against his frantic movements. His mantra finally dissolved into an unintelligible cacophony of moans and groans and cries. Actual cries. Because there were tears in his optics. You could see underneath his visor at this angle and the trails of fluid were unmistakable.

            You whimpered and lifted your servos to stroke soothing lines over his hips and thighs, “It’s okay, Jazz.” You crooned. “Let it out. Let everything out.”

 

            He released one loud, long, _low_ groan and grinded his interface array into your own on his next downward trip. He was pressing so hard that he needed to brace himself on the table behind him to keep his balance. The saboteur was obviously very close and very ready to go--frantically seeking that last joule that would send him plummeting over the edge.

            He found it between your fingers when you snuck a servo up into the gap of his canopy and pinched a wire. His spark leapt in his chest and released a burst of energy that sent him under.

            You allowed the sight of his overload and the weight of his charged field to drag you along after him.

 

            It was still very hot when your systems restarted sluggishly. You were dreadfully tired now. Jazz was a comfortable weight. His warm frame and rickety, exhausted purring provided good reasons for staying but you really did need to leave the mess hall at some point that night. Your frame protested viciously against continued activity but you ignored it in favor of rousing Jazz.

            It took a lot of effort—he was even more depleted than you were now that he’d overloaded, after a crying session, _after_ a massive scare in the medical center, **_after_** a _surprise_ battle with the Decepticons—but you eventually managed to get a weak visor flicker from him.

            His legs were clearly not an option judging from the way they still quivered. You exvented lightly and prepared yourself to carry him. It wouldn’t be too difficult. The Polyhexian couldn’t weight any more than the two massive guns you lugged on your shoulders during your on-duty shifts. After a half-hearted wipe-down (you didn’t really think anyone would be awake enough at this joor to bother scrutinizing your frames too closely but just in case) you loaded the TIC onto your back and headed out.

            You weren’t concerned about any rumors. If someone did see you—and it wasn’t likely with how late it was but even if they _did_ \--the first thought would be that Jazz overdid it with the highgrade. Even if they assumed the two of you had interfaced (and there was no denying that if someone really had been around to hear the two of you) it wasn’t like it was the biggest tripwire in the world. Jazz was known for being active and you were a known close friend.

            You also just didn’t give a frag about what anyone had to say when you were this worn-out but there was no need to get into _that_.

 

            It was a difficult thing to navigate Jazz’s quarters. He wasn’t a dirty mech but he just kept music _everywhere_. You imagined the albums were very valuable in their current format especially since most of the artists were either dead, fighting in this war, or had management that succumbed to the first two and therefore could no longer produce anything. That didn’t even count all the trinkets and bobbles and other paraphernalia the saboteur had collected from all over Cybertron. It really was impressive. Just not when you were trying to get back to your own berth.  

 

            He drifted out of recharge when you settled him on his berth but only for a moment. Then he turned over and curled up into his padding and was out for the night.

            He remembered you lingering for a klick to stretch your cables. He remembered a brief flash of that warm and fuzzy feeling he’d reveled in earlier. He couldn’t quite remember if he heard his door shut or not but well, recharge was nice, wasn’t it? Yeah, he was going to get back to that.


	2. Second Guess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ATTENTION:** To those who have already read chapter one before I edited it, I would just like to inform you of the changes. It's nothing big but I just found a plot-hole that I wanted to close up before it sucked me in halfway through this story. If you recall, I wrote Optimus in as the Autobot leader but I'm going to change it to Sentinel for the moment since it flows better with how Prowl will be introduced. 
> 
> It also strengthens how important and influential Jazz is to his peers since I can't imagine Sentinel fostering the type of atmosphere Jazz does within the ranks. (Honestly, I can't imagine a fair number of Autobots might have even _been_ Autobots for long without Jazz there to help them see the good in their actions but that's my own personal opinion...) Hopefully his relations with other mecha will be more apparent in this next chapter. If not, there's certainly many more to come. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

            When Jazz first woke that next morning after the battle, he took a moment to note that he felt a _thousand_ times better than he did the cycle before. He was still tired but he’d fully expected that. He’d also thought he’d be a little stiff and anxious but was pleasantly surprised to find that he actually wasn’t. His lower back felt a little sore where no doubt the table had made a fair dent but that was all he could really complain about. Otherwise he felt perfectly drained and too relaxed to stress out over anything.

            It was halfway passed the Fourth joor of the solar cycle. He had half a joor to visit the washracks and refuel before he had to get some work done.

            It was going to be a long cycle as the first ones after a battle usually were. Most mecha who came out fresh from the fighting were awarded up to a groon of light duty to recuperate. Jazz as the acting Protihexan base commander and the head of Special Operations didn’t really have that luxury though he didn’t mind. Most of his time would be spent approving those requests and sorting through reports and debriefings brought on after the previous solar cycle. None of it was particularly difficult. It took a lot of time but that was mostly because Jazz spent so much of it having fun while he worked.

            The hard part would be turning everything he learned and accomplished into a datapad for Sentinel Prime. His superior collected general reports from all the Autobots’ posts every groon or so. Dropkick usually handled those since Jazz was notoriously bad at deskwork. He did his best when he could move and be actively involved. Not that he was going to be doing much of that this cycle with his low energy levels.

            It took a fair amount of effort to rise from the comfort of his berth. He’d be lying if he said he did so willingly.

            His private bathroom did an excellent job of both waking him and prolonging the warmth he’d abandoned in his berth.

            Usually Jazz played music and sang and danced along while he washed. He didn’t much feel like it today; not in the least because he didn’t have enough time but also because he was very dirty. He’d never gotten around to bathing after the battle and everything that came up thereafter. Jazz wasn’t obsessed with his appearance mostly because he didn’t need to be. He looked great with just a minimal amount of effort and the right products. Still, the stylish mech couldn’t tolerate grime when he had the means to get rid of it especially not when he had no reason to continue being in such a terrible state to begin with.

            Jazz finished quickly without his usual entertainments and also tired of the now-stifling heat since there was nothing else to distract him from it. It was inexplicably refreshing to vent in the dry, cool air of his room. It left him feeling a bit more awake though he didn’t stay there long. Jazz wasn’t the most punctual of mecha but that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least try to be on time. He forwent the trip to the mess hall in favor of a to-go cube from his dispenser. It meant he wouldn’t get to hang out with the newbies since they and their instructors were the only ones up at this joor but there were 20 joors in a day. There’d be other opportunities.

            He ran into other mecha on his way to the war room. It was more like a huge building full of offices and conference rooms where Intel, Tactical, and Communications met up to do business. Mecha from other areas were frequent visitors but their duties were largely elsewhere.

            They smiled and waved at Jazz with varying degrees of awareness. It was very early, after all. Jazz returned them as best he could. Honestly, despite how utterly relaxed he’d been only a klick before, the TIC felt nervousness stab into him.

            It followed him all the way through the building, mounting with every mech he saw until, by the time he made it down to his office—one of the lowest rooms in an already mostly underground building—he was practically buzzing. He vented a heavy sigh and forced himself to relax as the door closed and locked behind him.

            The familiar space did wonders for his nerves and he was able to work peacefully. For a little while at least. Then people started knocking.

            As usual, the first mech to show up was an officer in charge of the night shift. He rattled through the nocturnal events with an efficiency that spoke volumes for his desire to be free to recharge. Unfortunately, Jazz found himself dissatisfied with the lack of fine details.

            Soldiers tended to filter through the loads of information they gathered; picking out the most important details while leaving out the bits they assumed their superiors would have little interest in or practical use for. The summaries grew more and more simplified the higher up they traveled until Jazz was left with little more than highlights. This was normally exactly what he wanted since he had so many other things he had to look into any given day but with such a vague report, he couldn’t tell what was happening in the mill. So he leaned forward and flashed a grin that belied the anxious swirling in his tanks, “Thanks, mech. Yer free ta go but before ya do…Ya haven’t heard anythin’ interestin’, have ya?”

 

            “You mean aside from everything I _just_ told you?”

 

            Jazz flapped his servo in the air, “That’s war stuff. Ah’m talkin’ ‘bout gossip.”

 

            The other sighed quietly, feigning displeasure despite the fact his field was laced with subtle amusement, “You’re shameless, Commander Jazz.”

 

            Jazz tried not to frown though he couldn’t say for sure what that did to his expression. Thankfully his field remained clear and wholly undisturbed. He punctuated the act by leaning back casually in his chair, “‘S that what they’re sayin’ now?”

 

            “We’ve always said so you’ve just never noticed.”

 

            Jazz highly doubted _that_. There was precious little Jazz didn’t already know or learn about and the bits that eluded him had nothing to do with a lack in observational skill. Still, he didn’t press for any more information. Doing so would just make him look suspicious and that wouldn’t help his case at all.

            He was hard-pressed not to pester every mech that came in afterwards. If he knew anything about his Autobots, he knew repeated actions would eventually lead to speculations that would foster rumors which were the _last_ things Jazz needed when he was trying to sort out what was _already_ possibly going around about him. He’d have to rely on those skills in perception that Dubstep insisted he didn’t have.

            And you know, maybe he was right because despite all of his considerable training, Jazz couldn’t pick up a single indication that anything was amiss aside from the usual post-battle uneasiness. Security, Logistics, even Special Ops reported nothing unusual happening on base. It was frustrating. Jazz never felt so in the dark and he had night vision! He was starting to believe that maybe there was simply nothing to be found. That didn’t explain why his spark leapt every time someone so much as glanced at him.

            He decided it was time for a break when he realized he’d ignored the last three mecha trying to report in to him in favor of analyzing their body language.

            About four joors and 45 breems had gone by since the start of his shift and while he had a fair few left to go, he felt he was due a proper refuel. The idea of going into the crowded mess hall crippled his desire however. He couldn’t build the resolve to do it--not until he could confirm for sure that no one was laughing at him behind his back.

            It was a weird thing, being concerned about what others thought of him. Jazz didn’t usually. He was used to the mecha working around him showering him with praise and admiration. He was used to being loved and trusted and respected and even reverently feared. Truthfully, he’d simply gotten used to having such a positive reputation period—at least as far as it extended in the work place—that the threat to it tore at his mind.

            He knew how mecha worked. His history with partners was less than sparkling, after all. They got excited after a good frag and could barely contain themselves afterwards. He couldn’t remember if he’d asked you to keep this arrangement a secret or not.

            It wasn’t the interfacing he was worried about, not entirely anyway. That part didn’t bother him aside from the fact that he’d chosen someone he worked with instead of a random face he didn’t have to deal with ever again if he didn’t want. If it really came down to it, he could—and would—deny the relations between you and him and it would stand because of the gargantuan differences between your ranks. Jazz would seem cruel but he would rather protect your spark than your feelings. There were a number of mecha out for his life who would spring happily upon any solid link to him and he'd rather see you alive but upset rather than not at all. It was the same with anyone he slept with.

            And yet none of them had ever seen him break down before. It was a distinct vulnerability that Jazz did not have a tight hold around and it felt awful.

            He wasn’t ignorant enough to push this off as simply a safety issue--a secret he had to keep out of the hands of hit men and extortionists. He knew he could just as easily deny this claim along with the ones about interfacing. This was about his image.

            Oh, he knew it was normal to break. He didn’t have a problem with mecha crying. He understood letting go was healthy. None of that meant it had to be public knowledge. Besides, it just didn’t fit in with Jazz’s image of himself. It was hard enough just remembering you’d seen it.

            The problem was you were a popular mech, too. People knew very well the effect you had and Jazz wasn’t confident anyone would really believe his refutations if he claimed otherwise. The simple truth was Jazz just didn’t like the idea of so many mecha knowing something so personal about him.

            He needed to talk to you. He needed to be sure you wouldn’t tell anyone about what happened if you hadn’t already. So much time had passed since your coupling…

            It didn’t take you long to show up after he sent off the command. You greeted him with a muted, curious smile as you stood at attention. It was a promising sign—one that spoke of your ability to solidly separate work from pleasure. Still, the nerves Jazz largely learned to ignore until now reared their heads again. He offered you the seat across from him and you took it gratefully.

 

            “Hey, Jazz,” you said slowly. You seemed subdued and decidedly distracted. It made Jazz wonder. “What did you need to talk about?”

 

            Jazz tried to smirk, “No ‘how are you? How’s yer day goin’?’”

 

            “No,” you declined simply. “We can save that for after work.”

 

            A small pretty smile curled at your lips. It might have drawn back a real one from Jazz if he wasn’t so emotionally preoccupied. You seemed to sense as much—that he was troubled by something that had very little to do with your job on the base. You weren’t an idiot, after all, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess the conversation topic all things considered.

 

            “What’s wrong?” You asked. You really wanted to know if you’d done something wrong. A part of you feared your statement had offended him—that it had been too suggestive for addressing a commander on duty—but this was _Jazz_. He was the coolest mech around when it came to official military protocols. It had to be something else.

 

            Jazz for his part didn’t bother trying to keep up his façade any longer. It wasn’t like you hadn’t already seen him at a low point. Still, it was easier last night when you were working on your holoscreens. Then, your attention had been (seemingly) severely split.

            To feel the solidarity of your focus; its intensity combined with your unwavering gaze…it sent a twinge down his spine that did little to assuage how exposed he felt. Thankfully the visor hid how he adverted his optics, “…Did you tell anyone about last night?”

 

            Time seemed to stretch on forever in the second between the end of his sentence and the start of yours.

            He trusted you to give him an honest answer, didn’t he?

            He wanted to. He knew that much. But Jazz was a little disturbed to find that only most of him agreed and not by as large a margin as he would have thought.

            There was a constant voice in his spark that sang to him songs of potential hurt and betrayal…It annoyed him to be honest.

            The sentiment flared in his field.

            Right now he reminded himself of a naïve, emotionally frail youngling and the ironic similarities just disgusted him even more because really? He knew better.

 

            “No,” you said after what felt more like a few breem than a couple nanoklicks. Jazz’s frame started trembling. “I hadn’t really planned on it either.”

 

            There was no small amount of relief at your words though the TIC still hesitated in accepting your answer.

 

            “Why?” Jazz pressed. He needed to be sure.

 

            You tilted your helm to the side and regarded him with a curious expression, “‘S’not really anyone’s business.” You shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Why? Did somebody say something to you about it?”

 

            He hesitated, unsure of how to say what he meant. That was how he ended up asking “Do mecha really call me shameless?” instead of answering your question.

 

            “No…?" You said slowly, a little confused by the conversation. "Not really. Not anymore. But that’s mostly because it’s already common knowledge.” Jazz frowned deeply and you hurried to reassure him.

 

            You could only assume someone had said that to him and he linked it to your nightly activities. It made sense that he would worry about what mecha were saying about him. Still you couldn’t imagine the one saying that meaning it negatively. Everything you heard mecha say about Commander Jazz was overwhelmingly positive, “It’s mostly the fact that you’re so open and friendly despite how important and high-ranking you are. Mecha expect this rigid, prideful mech that’s either really stuffy and uptight or snobby and aggressive when they think of senior commanding officers. But you’re just…not. You’re carefree, happy, fun, inviting, warm…You’re shamelessly you. It’s a good thing.”

 

            Jazz seemed to be lost in thought. You didn’t really know what to say after that so you let silence fall between you for a moment. Hopefully he understood that the adjective wasn’t likely an attack on his hobbies.

            Honestly, you had no idea what the problem was. Even if someone had learned about last night--which you doubted since no one brought it up--you still didn’t think it was so big a deal. It was normal to interface and there were only a very precious few on base who have yet to engage in the activity. Sure it would be embarrassing for people to run around talking about your ‘facing habits but you had no intentions to let such a thing happen in the first place.

            Still, you couldn’t be selfish. While neither of you were technically bound by anything lasting, you had requested exclusivity and so felt obligated to accommodate him in some way.  _You_ didn’t particularly care if mecha found out about the arrangement but that said nothing about Jazz’s concerns. You didn’t expect him to explain them to you—you weren’t nosy like that—but you could certainly try your best to make him feel better about a potentially distressing situation, “Hey, if you don’t want anyone to know, that’s fine. They won’t. I won’t tell anyone we interface.”

 

            Confusion swept into understanding only to settle on apprehension as Jazz shook his helm, “Na, it’s not that, mech…It’s…”And he winced at the embarrassment that hammered over his shoulders. “…It’s the whole cryin’ bit…”

 

            Your lips parted as you stared at Jazz with bright optics. You’d assumed he’d been regretting interfacing with you for fear of what others would say if they found out. It was surprising to discover he was more concerned with his display of emotion. Especially since it was something you wouldn’t give a second thought to.

            It took a second for you to replay the conversation, to understand it from his angle but a moment later you sat up straighter and leaned towards your companion, “Oh, no, Jazz! That’s nothing!”

 

            The black and white mech looked way less than convinced. In fact he turned his helm completely away, a deep frown pulling on his mouth, and snatched his field in close to his frame. You flared your own in response, taking pleasure in how it’s heavy soothing nature loosened his shoulders even if he still kept himself largely closed off from you, “Really, Jazz, it’s fine. I’d never tell anyone about that!”

 

            “Why wouldn’t ya? It’d make fer a great story.”

 

            “Well, for starters I don’t give a frag about all that gossiping slag you’re all so obsessed with,” you frowned. You were a little offended that he thought so lowly of you. “Not that you crying would make that big of a splash considering _everybody_ does it and I bet most of them aren’t dealing with even the tiniest fraction of the slag you are. This entire base would look like a fleet of Cybertron’s biggest hypocrites if a single one of us tried to call you out on something so _stupid_. If anything, they love you so much, they’d be slagging _concerned_ about you.” You glared at him for a moment before slumping back in your seat with an irritated rev of your engine. In a tone that was softer but no less firm, you continued. "Come on, Jazz, what’s gotten into you? Here I am worrying about not acting weird around you and _you’re_ the one glitching.”

 

            Jazz thought about lashing out at you but he really didn’t have it in him to fuss today. It wasn’t like you were saying anything especially wrong either. Secretly, he knew he was ~~possibly~~ overacting but he was _scared_. There was a reason he avoided these kinds of situations, especially with mecha he was forced to see on a daily basis. And this particular one—this one where someone had actually managed to see his vulnerability—had never happened. Certainly never when they knew him as _Jazz_ and not just one of the many personas he adopted on missions.

 

            “Ah know Ah’m being ridiculous,” he began but you cut him off before he could say anything more.

 

            “Na,” you denied in a voice that was much closer to your normal speaking voice rather than that lance of fire you’d used before. “You’re just really cautious. Which is kind of weird coming from you. I mean, it makes sense considering how many things you’re responsible for but it doesn’t really fit for ‘Jazz’, y’know?”

 

            “Yeah, Ah s’ppose it doesn’t…” Jazz conceded. He rumbled his engine discontentedly. “This is what Ah get for building up such a solid reputation. Ah can’t even be mahself without mecha thinkin’ it’s somehow not right.”

 

            “No, it’s what you get for not trusting the mecha around you.” Jazz flared his field, preparing to argue, but you shushed him with a warm albeit tired flare of your own. “Why you do it doesn’t matter. It’s still a consequence.” You shrugged. “For what it’s worth I’m sure your reasons are amazing.”

 

            “That or we’re both just idiots,” Jazz muttered before he really thought about it. He glanced up at you from beneath his visor.

 

           The corners of your mouth twitched up into a small smile, “Maybe but I think we’re both just a bit more self-conscious than we realized. And tired. And hungry.”

 

            Jazz’s helm tilted to the side as he considered that, “Ah think that’s the biggest reason for all this. From me at least....The, uh, self-conscious bit.”

 

            “I’m aware!” You laughed at the sheepish embarrassment that filtered into Jazz’s field. “Don’t worry, Jazz. Everything’s fine. You don’t ever have to worry about me telling your secrets if you don’t want them shared.”

 

            He wanted to point out that believing you was easier said than done but he didn’t want to ruin the good mood. Instead he made a point of tapping his finger absently against a datapad he most certainly wasn’t going to look at any time soon, “Then Ah guess it’s time fer us ta get back ta work.”

 

            You tilted your helm as a thoughtful expression came upon your face--bright optics raised to the ceiling as you hummed, “…No, I think it’s time we refuel.” Rising, you leaned across the desk and swiped a finger across his left sensor horn. “Come on.”

 

            Jazz stared after you, momentarily dumbstruck, as you stepped towards the door. You moved with such quiet confidence—as if the very idea that Jazz might not want to follow simply could not exist. And Jazz; he had to smile because honestly you had it right.

            Why would he— _should_ _he_ —want to stay in his office at the near-bottom of the war room putting off reading datapads when he could be with you and your friends laughing in the sun over sweet cubes of energon?

 

             “Well, ya could wait fer meh. I haven’t ‘xactly dismissed ya and Ah am the boss here,” he paraded in an attempt to regain control of the situation.

 

            You simply glanced over your shoulder with a grin, “That only means I won’t get scrapped if my S.O. comes looking for me which I doubt.”

 

            “Ah, so Ah’m just here for collat’ral damage.”

 

            You shrugged noncommittally though your field brushed against his playfully, “Well, there’s that. But you’re good for a couple other things too.”

 

            “Oh, yeah? Like what?” He prompted.

 

            You giggled at his blatant compliment-fishing.

 

            “You make mecha laugh for one,” you supplied when he continued to gaze at you expectantly. His mouth pulled into a smug smile and he shifted closer to you. You stuck out a servo and held him away lest he corral you into the wall. “Jaaaazzzz, c’mon. I’m hungry. I’ll stroke your ego later.”

 

            He relented with such extravagance that you had to grin. The little black and white spent the trek to the mess hall baiting you into trivial conversation. He didn’t show it but it irked him that you knew that that was what he wanted. He needed that little dose of praise he was used to. That boost to his surprisingly shot confidence. That promise of normalcy where people didn't view him differently. You seemed to see right through his meticulously crafted façade as if he were made out of glass instead of heavy metal. Anyone else would have assumed he was simply playing around. And maybe you did, too. Maybe he was still just a little paranoid and giving you a little too much credit. Maybe you weren’t really so perceptive and this was just a coincidence but it still settled too close to the spark for him.

 

            The mess hall was almost unrecognizable when it was full. The multitude of mecha pulled the walls and ceilings in to form a tiny, loud, aromatic box that was way too small for one to move in. The two of you subconsciously crowded closer together as you made your way to the energon, additives, and confections.

            This and target practice had to be the things you loved most about living on a military base. There was food, plenty of it, and it was _good_.

            Mecha started waving and calling out to you both almost as soon as you walked in but you largely ignored them. Your focus was on the buffet displayed in the center of the room. Jazz followed closely, an amused smile fighting at his lips as you picked apart the offerings with professional skill. You had the decency to wait for him to collect his own meal before submitting to the masses demanding you join them. And yet there wasn’t much left for you to work with when it came time to actually refuel! Waiting to sit didn’t mean you’d waited to sample your collection.

            You weren’t inclined to choose a spot, willing to let Jazz pick for the two of you since he was the main focus anyway. He was the party-mech after all. They only needed you when they thought no one was around. You didn’t mind usually and certainly not when you had energon as a distraction.

            You could hear them laughing good-naturedly about one thing or another through heavy static. It didn’t subside until your tanks sloshed happily with every slight movement. Satisfied, you pushed your chair back and started purring your engine idly. Having perceived that you were paying attention to the world again, someone said, "Aren’t you supposed to be repatching a roof or something?”

 

            “Aren’t _you_ supposed to be minding your own business?” You offered back with a curiously blank expression. Your cherubic features completely contradicted your statement and yet seemed to fully amplify it at the same time if one stared long enough. It was an odd combination that continually sparked an equally confused if not begrudgingly amused response from those around you. They seemed to forget that, despite your maturity, you were still pretty young and prone to cheeky outbursts.

 

            “Fine, fine. Have it your way, youngling.” They teased.

 

            If anyone expected you to bristle at the would-be insult, they were sorely disappointed. You simply grinned sweetly, “I shall.”

 

            Laughter rose up around you at that. You largely ignored it especially since it shifted from you so quickly. In a matter of klicks they were on another marginal topic that at least three of them found interesting enough to indulge in. You on the other hand let your optics wander.

            When they rested on a specific table cluttered with minibots the blue orbs brightened and your field flared in unadulterated hilarity. It was such a random reaction that Jazz would have turned to you even if you hadn’t called for his attention. You'd seemed way too subdued thus far to suddenly display such energy. He was curious.

 

            “Look.” You grinned widely and pointed across the way at a small red minibot he recognized as Cliffjumper.

 

            “What am Ah lookin’ at? An’ ya might wanna be quick about explaining ‘less ya wan’im ta look over here. Last thing we need is the mech thinkin’ we’re over here startin’ anythin’ about ‘im.”

 

            The truth in Jazz’s words had the other mecha around you both shifting uncomfortably. Cliffjumper’s reputation was insidious and while not particularly dangerous by himself, he had a way of collecting a following that really made messing with him just really not worth it. Neither you nor Jazz were particularly fearful of the little red mech or any form of retaliation but it was still annoying to deal with. You spoke quickly and quietly so that only Jazz’s sensitive hearing would be able to pick it out over the noise, “Does that chair look familiar to you?”

 

            Jazz tilted his helm and regarded the object in question more closely. He honestly couldn’t say that it did. It was just a chair like any other in the room. You felt as much in his field but your own continued to bleed gleeful pleasure, “No? How about the table then? You spent enough time abusing it to be quite familiar with it, I think.”

 

            Jazz’s visor flashed brightly as his optics flared. His mouth dropped open as he made the connection. It was easier when he took into account where the table was in the room. It wasn't like he could so easily forget what transpired. His own field settled into a congealed mass of shock, amusement, and the faintest apprehension because really that was a secret the little minibot _certainly_ didn’t need to know. The fact that it was _that_ minibot in particular just made the whole situation that much funnier. Cliffjumper was such a volatile, grumpy, _angry_ mech and he would surely only become even more so if he ever figured out the truth about where he now sat.

 

             Jazz's reaction tipped you over the edge and you laughed out loud. After a klick or so your guffawing simmered down to giggling hums. You leaned your elbows against the table and cradled your (color) helm, suddenly spent, "Slaggit, I'm too tired for this today..."

           

            “Ah jus' hope we didn’t leave a mess.”

 

           You turned to stare at Jazz in surprise before laughter overtook you once again because honestly only Primus could say. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing how hard it is to get one thing out when you've got a thousand other ideas dying to break free right along with it. Still, I finally got chapter two finished! :D And number three is already being started! Unfortunately it'll likely take a minute to get out but fortunately, it's not nearly as soul-searching as this one so it shouldn't need such meticulous care on my part to part with it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Steaming Sauna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, again.  
> I know it took me forever to post another chapter. I do sincerely apologize from the very depths of my heart. Part of it was certainly life but the largest problem was this chapter itself. I'm sure I've rewritten it at least four times and each time the finished product was no good. It didn't seem to flow with what was already written and it would leave much too big of a gap in the timeline without providing any context so I kept redoing it and redoing it and redoing it until I came up with this! And, not to sound pretentious but, it's perfect now! ^_^ 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for waiting and happy reading!

           

            You counted six cycles before Jazz approached you again. To be honest you didn’t think he would. Not that you thought him a liar or anything but it really wasn’t in his nature to allow himself to be tied down. You didn’t think less of him for it. People were who they were.

            You yourself were completely prepared for that first night to be a fluke. A misstep in your usually pretty decent judgement. Something you’d likely pretend to forget until you really didn’t remember anymore. Such was not meant to be apparently.

            You didn’t know yet if that was meant to be a good thing or a bad one when you found yourself cornered in the washracks. It was a routine the members of your squad stuck to quite faithfully, rinsing before going to refuel as a means of team bonding.

 

            “What’s everyone up to after this?” Lakeshine asked casually as she buffed her plating free of scuffs. All optics turned to her in mild surprise. The red femme wasn’t usually so talkative—preferring to watch the proceedings with professional aloofness until everyone began to break away.

 

            Silvercell, a tall and deceptively delicate femme with sophisticated violet optics and elaborate silvery detailing, wrinkled her optic ridges curiously, “Do you have plans for the evening?”

 

            Lakeshine’s twinkling Autobot-blue optics spiraled closed a little in mild offense. Before she could start harping though, Inktip interjected in that rough way Kaonites were known for, “Heh. Mos’ likly. Prolly jus’ wan’ us all ta rush through da slaggin’ pleasantries so she can say she stayed this time a‘fore runnin’ off ta her pretty lil famly.”

 

            He was the only mech from the dilapidated city-state on the Protihexan base—in fact you didn’t think it’d be an exaggeration to say he was the only Autobot to come out of Kaon, the poor thing. Stereotypes hounded him mercilessly. It had to affect him deep down but he never bothered to talk with you. In fact he seemed determined to win everyone over with the brightness of his smiles and the featherweight of his field. Unfortunately Lakeshine wasn’t completely sold though she didn’t take as much offense to his mannerisms as she could have. Her response was biting but there was only mild injury lacing her glyphs. One could almost call it teasing if Lakeshine wasn’t such an established spoilsport, “Just because you mechs are stuck on base even when work’s done doesn’t mean _I_ have to be.”

 

            Two-Step--a younger mech like yourself though that did nothing for your relationship—stepped out from a spout of rushing solvent with a loud whir, “You _are_ lucky you’re from Protihex and your house is so close by but I don’t think life’s bad here on base.”

 

            “‘Course it innit. She just bein’ her uzal bitchen self,” Inktip dismissed with a lazy flick of his wrist. Lakeshine’s optics spiraled wide in heavy affront. Silvercell glowered at him with angelic features too pretty to convey proper anger. The dark mech raised his servos innocently amidst the double assault. “Wha?! Isa good thing!”

 

            Lakeshine ruffled her plating haughtily and turned away with her nose in the air. Silvercell tried not to quirk an indulgent smile at the Kaonite lest she ruin her virtuous image. The other mecha around simply sighed with varying degrees of exasperation or amusement and went back to either rinsing or buffing out their finishes.

 

            “Who dya think is gonna get sent out to help fix the slag the ‘Cons blew up a decacycle ago?” You heard someone say. You were only half-listening to the conversation. You were tired and nothing relaxed you quite like a warm joor under a firm water spout.

            When no one answered, it occurred to you that maybe they were talking to you. You unshuttered your optics with great difficultly and forced yourself to take in the situation. Just about every optic was on you now, smiling knowingly as if the question had been mostly rhetorical—asked only to prove or disprove some silent expectation of your response. You pursed your lips a little when you caught even Lakeshine quirking a small smile. You’d definitely missed something. Still she decided to spare you and let her tiny grin fall a second later, wrapping herself back in her critical façade when she sniffed, “We’d do better off asking the sergeant, wouldn’t we? After all that’s who gives [Name] his orders.”

 

            “Ooooooooooooooooh!!!!!!” The others crowed childishly at her taunting, shoving each other and flaring their fields and jeering at you for a reaction. You simply ruffled your plating and shifted under the spray, waiting for them to quiet down enough for your words to be heard.

 

            “We’ll see who takes orders when I pick your name out of the group and send you off to the borders.” You grinned audaciously and moved to the air dryers amidst your comrades fleering. They were warm, too, with the added bonus of not having to risk water damage.

 

            “Well, _I’m_ going to go home and refuel. I think I’ve entertained you louts enough,” Lakeshine announced some time later. She expelled the last of the humid air from her vents as she passed through the heavy doors without looking back.

 

            “Well, while she does dat, _I’ma_ go get some energon. Mah tank’s empty as da slaggin’ Pits,” Inktip griped as he bounced up from his seat at the waxing station and skipped after Lakeshine.

 

            “Ooh! Hey! Wait for me!” Two-Step chirped and rose with the intent of tearing off after the older mecha.

 

            You couldn’t see it but you knew Silvercell must’ve glanced between you and the other mecha slowly filing out in kind when she said, “[Name], are you coming? Would you like us to wait for you?”

 

            You rumbled your engine noncommittally, “Go on ahead. I’ll be there just give me a klick.”

 

            She lingered a bit longer. You could tell because you could still feel her field through the edges of your own. It fluttered hesitantly though you couldn’t fathom why. To reassure her, you pushed willing tolerance into your field and let her bask in it for a moment, waiting for her to work up the nerve to say what was on her mind. After a moment her aura eased and she murmured, “I…know you’re my superior first even if you’ve also grown to become one of my good friends so maybe I shouldn’t say this but…But I hear it’s a hard position to balance—being a corporal--given the pressure of responsibility without the real wiggle room to maneuver. I…well, I just want you to know that regardless of what they tease you about, we’re behind you all the way and we’ll help you with whatever you ask whenever you ask it.”

 

            Amusement tickled your senses and you turned on your optics halfway to gaze at her. Your field brushed against hers affectionately as a small smile pulled at your lips, “Thank you. I do appreciate it but where is this coming from?”

 

            “Nowhere, it’s just…you’ve been pretty tired recently ever since you got promoted. People ask a lot more of you now so I just wanted to make sure you knew you didn’t have to take on so much alone.”

 

            “It’s fine. A lot of it is my own doing. I don’t allow myself as much time to relax anymore.” There wasn’t time for it anymore, is what you wanted to say. Every vorn the Decepticons get worse. Every attack brings more damage and forces you to drain ever more of your energy to keep up with the orders of your COs. You thought the slight lie would make her feel better than the truth though and so kept it short and sweet for her sake.

 

            “Then take the time now at least. We’ll wait for you,” she promised with a small smile and finally departed with the rest of your squad. You disappeared back into that nice hazy state between recharge and wakefulness, systems purring on idle as your cables slowly loosened in the warm heated air. The door opened and closed sporadically as other mecha drifted in to fetch something or other. A shower head would hiss to life or turn off in the spacious washroom…

            He got you when your guard was down--latching his arms around your chassis and dragging you swiftly back into a shower stall, one with a door for those mecha who didn’t feel comfortable baring their privates to others when they washed.

            You recognized him quite easily. It wasn’t hard given his position. You’d carried him on your back across the base a couple lunar cycles ago after all.

 

            “Jazz, what--?” You started to ask but he hissed at you and beat his field against yours impatiently. Your comm flickered to life a moment later, connecting you to a private line that overrode the usual barriers blocking such potentially dangerous interference.

 

           :: _Quiet now. They’re still mecha around_. ::

 

            You glowered at the back of the closed stall door. Surely he didn’t expect you to go along with his craziness—to be content with being dragged into a stall and interrupting your date with some good energon--without even letting you in on it. You obligingly lowered your voice but were by no means complacent, “Jazz. What _are_ you doing? _Why_ are we hiding? Why are you even here? You must have your own washrack.”

 

            “I was lookin’ for ya,” he explained simply in a muted tone. “Well, actually I already knew where ya were Ah jus’ needed ta get ya by yaself. Or as close to it as Ah could.” He was grinning you could tell. Even if it wasn’t in his field his tone positively dribbled with it. You supposed you should be thankful for his good mood. At least he hadn’t come to be coddled this time. But if not for that, then what? The question must’ve been in your field because Jazz’s flickered obligingly. His servos shifted from their initial innocent grip around your upper body to a more sensual position at your waist.  

 

            :: _Aww, c’mon, mech…_ :: And suddenly his manner wasn’t quite so carefree. :: _Surely ya haven’t forgotten the deal already?_ ::

 

            The suggestive perlocutionary nature—the hidden allegation that you might have been all talk; the subtle attack to your integrity what teased that despite popular belief _you’d_ be the one to back out before anything had even begun; the glyphs promising carnal pleasure curled into the words—it did something to you. Especially when you tossed in the memories of that night in the dining hall. Your spark spun faster, pushing out more energy than your frame could use, collecting until you started to feel heated. It didn’t help that the solvent was so hot. There was no way to escape it. A faint charge was building and your plating ruffled to assuage the sudden discomfort.

 

            “Oh…”

 

            “Oh?” Jazz chuckled lowly. You couldn’t tell if it was because of your actions or some private thought he wouldn’t share. Mecha seemed to have a lot of those this cycle. Either way, it was a pretty sound that shouldn’t have made you want him so badly. None of this should. :: _Wha’s wrong, [Name]? Didn’t think Ah’d keep mah word?_ ::

 

            How perceptive.

            Your spark pulsed nervously for it.

            Still, did you tell him the truth? You didn’t want to insult him even if he did already suspect…

            You were happy he’d come, after all; that he’d taken you seriously and trusted _your_ word even if you were being hypocritical with your distrust in his. You didn’t want to chase him away though despite your inability to pinpoint what made you feel that was a possibility…

            No, you decided. You wouldn’t press your luck. So you shook your helm and turned in his loose hold.

            :: _It’s not that,_ :: you lied and unshuttered your optics. You’d done a bit of that today, too…When had you closed them? You raised a servo, following its trail with your (color) lights until it rested against his neck cables. He suppressed the shudder very well. You couldn’t see it at all, only feel it against your palm. Your lips quirked up a little, running your fingers over the thin metal, :: _I just didn’t expect you for a while_.::

 

            :: _Yeah, well_ ,:: he began. And was it you or did he suddenly seem just a little less sure of himself? :: _There’s a lot to do when ya best helper is outta commission._ ::

 

            An excuse. You’d heard enough of them to be very familiar with their appearances in conversations. You used them quite a bit yourself.

            Maybe he hadn’t really meant to come after all? Maybe he’d expected you to turn him away? Or maybe he’d come to turn _you_ down and this was just his own special Jazzy way of doing it?

            You didn’t know.

            Jazz wasn’t so easy a mech for you to read.

            Maybe that was why you broke the rules for him? Because he challenged you?

            Whatever the reason, he was here now and you didn’t think it’d serve you well to play guessing games with the saboteur again. It didn’t turn out so well last time in his office. Best to be upfront…In the vaguest manner you could concoct. Leave him room to maneuver, to interpret as he would so you could better gauge his motives, :: _I imagine so. But since you’ve managed to find a bit of free time for me, I suspect it’s because you want something._ ::

 

            The gentle teasing seemed to ease his nerves. His small grin returned and he relaxed a smidgeon, :: _Ya not wrong_.::

 

            :: _Then…_ :: You let the glyphs flow with a soft vibrating hum, drawing his face nearer while simultaneously ushering him back against the cool tile. He didn’t expect such a tactic. As entranced as he was by you, his body seemed unable to decide if he wanted to push forward into you, too, or follow your guidance. He ended up stumbling a little. Quite imperceptibly but still an uncharacteristically clumsy move for the Polyhexian. It unnerved him. Not that he was alone. You were pretty nervous, too. :: _What would you have of me?_ ::

 

             He didn’t respond immediately. It saddened you a little until you reminded yourself you’d expected as much from the get-go. His inaction only confirmed your suspicion. He’d only come to you half-convinced of his promise at most. At worst, you’d completely misread the situation ( _again_ ) which you were starting to suspect you had.

             You pushed hot air through your vents forcefully as you dropped your servos to his shoulders and stepped back. You needed to resettle yourself then if that was the case and you couldn’t do that with him so devilishly close to you. You tried to keep your tone light and easy, unassuming and welcoming when you asked, :: _What did you need?_ ::

 

            Jazz’s visor dimmed indecipherably. He hadn’t released you even though you’d attempted to create space for him. In fact his fingers tightened around the edges of your flared armor when you threatened to move too far and in one smooth movement, pulled you forward by the hips and dropped to his knees. The surprised whir died in your vocalizer when he breathed quietly into the air, “Your spike.”

 

            The shock easily translated into arousal. Such candid declarations really shouldn’t come from lips so pretty and so close to your interfacing equipment. You had to physically reset your vocalizer to respond. You refrained, unwilling to embarrass yourself like that when you were already humiliatingly high-strung. Honestly you couldn’t find anything to say to an admission like that and defaulted back on gentle humor. :: _Tough time at work this cycle?_ ::

 

            :: _Dropkick’s still across tha Sea n Ah had ta increase th’ number a’ soldiers at the border afta the Decepticons crossed._ :: He explained absently as he traced the white lines towards your spike cover with his fingertips. Amusement made his visor flicker. You couldn’t see it but he was watching your face carefully as his glossa came out to run over the heated (color) metal. :: _Seems ya could use a break, too, if Ah heard right._ ::

 

            :: _Nosey_ , :: you accused lightly to distract yourself from the way the solvent was making his plating shine even more so than usual.

 

            :: _It’s a public space_ ,:: he countered as he pushed his field insistently against yours.

 

            :: _Exactly,_ :: you agreed pointedly.

 

            :: _Right_.:: His engine growled as loudly as he dared. :: _You planning on openin’ up soon or do Ah have ta beg?_ :: You huffed a wet sigh through your vents and obliged cautiously. He purred and shifted forward. Your field flushed pleasantly as he brought his mouth over the housing of your spike. You didn’t usually pride yourself on its appearance. You didn’t interface enough to care but even you had to admit that watching it—the thin (color) platelets spattered in white detailing that emphasized the gray tip, shiny with solvent and glinting with tiny biolights—looked absolutely brilliant disappearing passed his full gray lips. :: _Ah can override yer voice if ya don’t think you’ll be able ta keep quiet enough_.::

 

            The offer was real even if he did flare his field playfully. How he would manage such a thing took second place in your processor behind the fact you didn’t recall making a sound. Were you that far gone already?

            You’d never gotten so hot so fast. You supposed a lot of it had to do with your nerves. Every tiny scrap or scratch of metal against tile or glass made your fuel tank cinch, wondering if it was then that someone would notice. There was a higher thrill level this time—one that almost made you uncomfortable what with the barrier separating you from a whole room of mechs being so minimal. Last time there weren’t even any mecha around. It was easier to let loose. This time was infinitely more perilous and yet Jazz seemed to have no difficulty keeping his silence, absorbing himself in his chosen task and fondling his own frame in the meantime. It made you wonder, :: _Are you an exhibitionist?_ ::

 

             Jazz hummed and gently coaxed you into kneeling with adamant strokes and pulls over your legs. :: C _all it watcha like_ ,:: he began as switched to stroking your spike. There wasn’t enough space in the chosen stall for Jazz to keep using his mouth. There was a tell-tale _snick!_ and suddenly the monochrome mech was squatting over your lap--thighs spread wide as he angled his hips forward. :: _Ah know what Ah want an’ I don’t care how Ah get it_.::

 

            The smirk on his face was positively sinful. You shuttered your optics and trembled as he guided the tip of your spike to his dripping valve. Most of it was likely solvent but logic didn’t have a place here. Not when the heat was making you dizzy. You didn’t risk letting your cooling fans kick on. It was an obnoxious give-away that you couldn’t afford with the two of you as exposed as you were.

            Jazz tilted his helm meaningfully, balancing easily over your lap in a way that surely strained his cables though he made it look effortless. You couldn’t imagine what he was waiting for. And while you weren’t a taker—preferring to cater to the needs of your partner than yourself--that didn’t stop you from nudging your hips up impatiently. A beautiful grin—smug though you couldn’t bring yourself to care—split his faceplates. Taking whatever cue he’d read from your actions, he lowered his hips.

            He felt as wonderful as you remembered. Not as tense--his semisolid walls were more pliant this time--but just as hot if not more so because of the environment. Your charge skyrocketed.

            Fortunately for everyone involved, Jazz was just as libidinous as you were. He still maintained a greatly superior level of self-awareness but his energy needed to go somewhere and his frame decided that his spike was the destination. The cover folded aside without warning releasing the shiny silvery-black addition to the already cramped space.

            It was surprisingly plain; beautifully maintained and very smooth to the touch but not nearly as decorated as you would have presumed. The white biolights wrapped around his length in a spiral until they formed a ring under the tip but that was the extent of its appearance. Clearly he hadn’t expected you to touch it if the way his visor flashed and his hips jerked were any indication.

            He seated himself heavily in your lap, unmoving as he tried to compose himself even a little. You didn’t let him, rolling your hips forward when his movements ceased. His back arched. Your internal comm came to life with the sound of his short moan. You hummed encouragingly back at him, pulling your fingers firmly up his spike and worrying the lights under his tip.

            Shifting his weight in an attempt to find some relief backfired. Deeper you went, your spike pressing firmly against the opening to his gestation chamber. Only that wasn’t quite it. There was a barrier there, a strange seal or cap of sorts that felt different from the gel you knew should be there.

            A safety measure. It had to be. Your field flushed in approval and you nudged forward to tap against it.

            Sensitive.

            Must’ve been there a while for his frame to have integrated it into his neural net.

            The blue visor winked off and Jazz’s plating flared to expel at least a little of the heat. His engine sputtered briefly before he brought it back under control. Consequentially, the redirected current once again detoured south and in a surprising turn of events, his spike erupted. It was only a tiny trickle at first, lacking most of the pink that would suggest transfluid versus lubricant. Still, when you started rolling your hips again and tracing the housing of his spike, the hard metal seemed to solidify even further, vibrating subtly between your fingers as he overloaded.

             His valve clenched unwittingly in response, bathing your own spike in sticky warmth even as his own coated your fingers and abdominal plating with glowing pink. The solvent quickly diluted the ejaculate, whisking it away between your plating and down the drain, out of sight and mind.

            His mewls, filling your ears and making your spark race as you were unable to tell if he was doing so aloud or through the comms, distracted you a little from your thrusting. Jazz was unwilling to wait for you and took over the movement even before his spike had finished spurting.

            Your servo left his spike in favor of his chest armor. With his plating flared so far, it was easy to sneak your fingers underneath and tease his wires. Once again his engine made to growl and once again he stamped down on the utterance. A curious mech, if they were smart, might guess…if they didn’t write it off as a mech accidently getting solvent too far down their intakes.

            Still, it seemed you’ve stumbled upon a winning combination of sorts. Jazz literally trembled in your arms and lurched forward. One black servo snaked between your bodies while the other found purchase on the stall door to keep balance. You smiled and raised a black and (color) servo of your own to finger a sensor horn. The saboteur immediately tilted his helm towards the sensation though you suspected it was more subconscious than anything. He was distracted. :: _Gonna go again?_ :: You inquired with the most basic of glyphs. You couldn’t manage any more than that.

 

            :: _Yes_ ,:: Jazz practically sang and not a nanosecond later did he make good on his assertion. Your field flushed in pleasure, taking in his visage and deciding that there was nothing more charming.

            The Polyhexian murmured fussily when your lips lingered against the side of his helm. His field hinted at some sort of disapproval though there was no time to address it. There was an odd shift in the atmosphere, a strange forbearing that made your frame tingle right before a familiar voice called out loudly, “Ah! No!”

 

            Two-Step. And he was very obnoxiously scouring the room--peaking behind half-walls and into adjacent shower stalls—most likely in search for you.

            Your systems came alive with crushing efficiency. Your engine stalled, your sensors shorted, and your primary systems whirred back to life. Your spark felt fit to burst in your chest as panic blew away the pleasure-induced haze like a gale-force wind. Your plating slammed down and closed. You’d never felt more awake.

            It only took a klick for you to start scrambling though it turned out to be meaningless. Jazz had seemingly vanished. There was no trace of him, not a paint scuff nor a field teek…Even the comm connection was lost—wiped away so professionally it might as well not have existed to begin with. Jazz could have just as easily been a figment of your tired subconscious if it weren’t for the lingering tint of purple on your predominately black thighs…Transfluid was pinker. That was from his valve. An instant later, the door at your back opened and you nearly fell backwards, momentarily diverted by your abrupt solitude to remember the situation.

 

            Two-Step took in your dazed appearance and whirred admonishingly, “C’mon, [Name], wake up!”

 

            You shifted irritably in response.

 

            “‘M not rechargin’,” you replied when you’d gotten over the shock of your subordinate’s sudden interruption. And the fact that you’d somehow managed to reach your peak despite the same. Or maybe because of it though you couldn’t say you were particularly satisfied.

            If anything, you felt worse—cheated out of something that could have been good and forced to capitulate for a weak flash you could barely bask in. Sure your frame was hot but what about that soothing lethargy that followed? Or the looseness in your cables? That loopy emptiness in your processors that made you grin if you recalled it joors later? Shot to the Pits. At least the adventure was lingering…

 

            “Yeah but you will be if you don’t keep yourself busy,” Two-Step retorted with a grin.

 

            “Thanks for the advice,” you praised, hoping that you’d at least managed to clear _some_ of the bitterness from your tone. “What did you need?”

 

            “Nothing!” He chirped. It just irritated you even more. What was his purpose then? You were drawn from your brooding by a sudden movement. It was Two-Step. His plating was rippling though he didn’t seem aware of it. He didn’t teek of distress or anger either…Strange. Before you could ask him about it, he continued on. “I was just checking on you.”

 

            “Well, thanks for that. Do me a favor and check on the other mechs, too. Make sure they refuel and get back to the barracks okay.”

 

            “Sure! No problem!” He brightened, happy to be of some assistance even if it was for something so mundane. You rumbled dejectedly as he took off after his next target.

            Still, you couldn’t be too upset. At least you knew now that there would be other times to overload. That was better than believing this was your last opportunity to get off with such a talented berthmate. You tried to keep such optimistic thoughts in mind as you went through the motions of tending to your frame. _Again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slow to update but I don't imagine it'll be _quite_ so long now that I've gotten passed writer's block with this last chapter. One can only hope. See you next time!


	4. Field Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a little over a month since the arrangement's begun. Jazz is still up to his usual antics.

            You had a problem. Not that that was entirely unexpected. There were many to be dealt with on a daily basis and it didn’t help that this one was one you’d been putting off. Well, not really ‘putting off’ as you’d been toying with it in your free time for an orn now. More like it was too far in the future when you first thought it up. You figured when it finally became a _real_ problem, the means would be met.

            They weren’t.

            It didn’t matter how the blueprints were switched, what materials they substituted, how many corners you cut, the fact remained: there wasn’t enough. More mecha were joining the cause, more soldiers needed to be trained, and more space needed to be cleared to do it. It was a good thing. For everyone else except you who were charged with providing such a space.

            Well, not _just_ you obviously but as the leader of your squad, you would be the one your SOs dropped the hammer on if it didn’t get done. Hence your problem: making the impossible come to life. 

            You were so absorbed with the task that you didn’t hear Jazz approach. Not that you really should have been all that surprised. He’d been seeking you out nearly every other morning for the last six groons, “Hey, [Name]!"

 

             The pleasant ‘surprise’ wasn’t enough to change your rather unaccommodating mood. You rumbled your engine irritably and shied away from him, “Go away, Jazz.”

 

            Your voice echoed from your alt-mode to mingle with the crisp morning air. It had an abnormal gravelly sound though that was to be expected considering it was only the start of the Fourth joor. The sun had only just begun to rise and it was still another joor at least until the other personnel started peppering the distance with their presence. And yet here you were--up and out and dragging about as if sleep were a thing meant only for civilians…

 

            “Whoa there. What’d Ah do?” The mech wasn’t the least bit put off by your lackluster welcome. In fact, it seemed to amuse him and he took up harmlessly buzzing your side. You thought about tripping him but you were on duty and he was the base commander. It’d be in bad taste.

 

            “Nothing. I’m working,” you said to answer his question. “You put me in a pretty hard place, you know.”

 

            Jazz nudged his field against yours as he hovered around. It was busy—lively and humming with the same restless energy Jazz seemed to be battling with, “Ah don’t see ya doin’ much a’ anythin’ ta be honest.”

 

            If you were in your bipedal mode, you might have rolled your optics. Of course he only cared about part of your response. Very selective, that one. You let your exasperation bleed through your field. Jazz chuckled. You tried not to let it affect you. He was right after all. You _weren’t_ doing much of anything at the moment.

 

            “No construction can begin ‘til the blueprint scales are realized and the ground is cleared. I don’t handle that part.” You swung open a door and jabbed it in the direction of the tiny throng of mecha from Engineering and Logistics and Support gathered in the middle of the huge plot of land tossed to the far side of the Protihexan Autobot base to draw Jazz’s attention there. Some were wandering about, imbedding holographic projectors into the ground and firing them up. Pale lines of ghost structures blazed to life in the dark, slicing through the uneven ground and previously undisturbed foliage to create an outline that would be easy to follow later on. They were vaguely familiar to Jazz. It took a bit of searching but eventually his processors brought up memory files of your holoscreens the night he came to you in tears. He hadn’t realized they were plans for the proving grounds he’d approved a groon ago.

 

            You weren’t alone. There were a couple mecha settled on the perimeter as you were, waiting for their role to become necessary, too. Jazz marked their positions and hummed thoughtfully. It made you wary. A calculating Jazz, as you were starting to understand, was cause for concern. He was an impulsive mech—one endowed with more luck and skill than should really be allotted to any one person. However, when he deemed even those attributes not enough and took the time to actually start plotting something, well, best to interrupt now and slip away if you could. Otherwise he’d have you stuck between a rock and a hard place. Literally.

 

            “What do you want, Jazz?” You demanded nonchalantly in a way that totally belied how nervous you really were.

 

            “Nothin’ really,” he drawled casually. You didn’t believe it for a second. There was no reason for someone as high-ranking as Jazz to be pilfering around a construction site no matter how popular he was.

 

            He brushed his field against yours again. It was a warm feeling—noticeable only because it was so cold right now but it made you shudder all the same. ‘ _Distracting_ ’, you mused, as you reigned in your field a little to avoid him. “Then what are you doing here?”

 

            “Getting ready to go to work.”

 

            Such a confusing mech. You settled a little lower to the ground with a small ex-vent, “How is driving all the way out here getting ready for work? When does your shift even start?”

 

            “On the Fifth joor. I’ve got a few breem.”

 

            “To do _what_?” You had an idea, of course, but you knew better than to make assumptions with Jazz. Most times, it just left you looking like an idiot.

 

            “To say ‘hi’.” If only you could smile. He was truly a strange mech.

 

            “You came all the way out here just to say ‘hi’…”

 

            “Yup.” The answer was short and sweet. “Hello.”

 

            A short laugh trickled out before you could remember you were supposed to be discouraging him from whatever it was he was mulling over (and you knew he was because he’d divulged into one-word answers), “Good morning. There. You’ve accomplished your mission. Good job.”

 

            “‘S not quite th’ ‘ello’ Ah had in mind,” he negated as he came to a smooth halt at your side. He was smaller than you in his alt-mode—a slight, sleek, compact model that no doubt made easy work of cluttered streets. What was his previous function again? It had to be something involving a good chase. Enforcer? Nah, Jazz was too lenient. Racer maybe? Or a stunt driver? Athlete? He never said. 

            You wiggled a little, field edging ambivalently as your engine grumbled. You were not a morning mech and you were stressed on top of that. Your temper was a little short and even though you largely enjoyed Jazz’s idiosyncrasies, you hadn’t the patience right now, “Then what do you want?”

 

            “A quick overload before I go into work.”

 

            “Really?” Exasperation. Jazz didn’t give you any time to get any further than that.

 

            “C’mon, mech. Ah need it. Ah won’t make it through the cycle the way Ah am now.” He extended his field over yours to prove his point. Its erratic buzzing and humming made your plating tingle.

 

             You whirred indecisively. On one hand, you could understand his problem. It was hard to focus for any length of time with an unrelenting charge. The usual solution was to work it off through physical activity, of course, which wasn’t the problem. You didn’t even have an issue with doing so on duty. It wasn’t like you were busy at this exact moment nor was it particularly difficult to finish off a mostly built charge.

            No, your problem was Jazz’s sketchy behavior, “…This didn’t happen because you had a good night’s recharge on a full fuel tank, did it?”

 

            “Does it matter?” Came the desirous reply.

 

            No, you supposed it didn’t. It still made you nervous though. Your acceptance must have bled into your field because suddenly Jazz’s engine revved victoriously and in the next instant, you were all but smothered. Before either of you could make complete fools of yourselves, though, you laid down the rules, “Field play only.”

 

            “ A’course, [Name]! Ah've still got _some_ dignity.” You huffed a tired laugh.

 

            “Maybe but I’d rather not have to plow through a slagheap of teasing my entire shift so try not to make a lot of noise,” you advised as you settled in for the little game, nudging your field into Jazz’s tenderly. His own submitted seamlessly, melding quite willingly with yours.

            Not that you had to worry about volume with such an accomplished saboteur. If anything, you’d be the one in trouble. You startled a little when your comm suddenly winked on. But it was only Jazz crooning to you in a smooth heavy tone that spelled mischief. :: _We’ll see_ ::

            The implied challenge delivered in such compelling tones made your frame shiver. Was that his plan then? To wave the flag of your inhibitions high above on a precarious pike and pray that no one caught sight—or rather sound--of it? Or, better still, force you to toil to make sure that they do not; because the longer this drew on, the easier it would be to get caught, the less control you were likely to have over your vocalizers, and the more likely things would go down in a fiery embarrassing inferno? If so, you’d have to work hard to pleasure him and you’d have to do so quickly or else--

            A familiar flash of nervous excitement swirled in your spark.

            You were thinking too much. It was wasting valuable time.

            You let the feeling flood your field unencumbered, quite used to it now after so many spontaneous meetups. Jazz snatched it up almost immediately, sighing encouragingly across the open line. His field was still vibrating. It sent tremors through your own with how closely interwoven they were. The splash of heat ignited your lines, drawing your attention to how nippy it still was outside. Made you aware that you were outside period amid a group of wandering (albeit half-awake) mecha.

            Jazz was pulling rather fiercely at you though. It was uncomfortable at first. You weren’t quite as aroused as he was after all. Eventually he noticed when you rumbled irritably and began feeding you some of his own charge to help you along…

            The resulting shiver sent hot stuff rippling across your plating. You jolted a little. Jazz’s field flickered in amusement, tickling against yours. He only made it worse. Primus! You were sensitive. When did that happen? Your engine growled to life and your fans started whirring slowly in response. You winced and scrambled to tone down the sound. It took concentration, something you didn’t have to spare when you had to keep an eye on your comrades’ movements. Maybe that was why. You were straining your sensors so hard to monitor everyone from a distance that consequentially you were feeling every little thing happening under your nose at full blast.

            Jazz was likely feeling it, too, if the way he grinded over his fans was any indication. His own engine had started up a restless purring but you had to admit you were impressed. He didn’t wiggle or shift or fidget like you did under the assault you were tossing each other back and forth. Jazz’s field had more charge in the beginning but as he pushed it into yours, you caught the excess he dispersed with his lingering caresses and weaved them through your own building charge until static hissed across your circuits.

            The monochrome mech grumbled and edged closer to you hungrily when he spotted the currents winking and flickering over your plating. You vented deeply when he flared his field harshly, trying your hardest to focus. The sparks jumped from your frame to his, fizzing over his body until he trembled. Before he could get too overwhelmed, you enticed it back to your frame lest he—

            A loud repetitive high-pitched chirrup suddenly pierced the morning air, slicing through your arousal and putting you on alert.

            All over mecha paused in their slog and began looking for the source. The mecha closest to you were spurred into action, making their way over briskly while those further down starting pinging each other questioningly. You gathered all the frequencies and added them into a group commlink, :: _What’s_ _happened_?::

 

            Immediately you were answered, :: _It’s the proximity alert. Someone’s here who’s not supposed to be_.::

 

            It was an obvious statement and yet saying so seemed to spur the others into mild clamoring. Immediately you thought of Jazz and just as quickly you dismissed the thought. For one, the alarms would have gone off much earlier than now and for another, he was the base commander—the system wouldn’t see him as an unauthorized individual.

 

            :: _Decepticon activity_?:: You wondered.

 

            :: _So far in and no one saw?_ ::

 

            :: _We cain’t ‘xactly see who caused this either_.::

 

            :: _And most of ‘em are fliers._ ::

            :: _Ya think they’re in the sky?_ ::

 

            :: _Should_ _we_ _report_ _it_?:: Another corporal, Gigabyte, chimed in from his place among the pavers. His serious tone momentarily silenced the chatter. What had been fairly idle speculation suddenly veered into nervous fear. You considered his words for a klick. Technically, it would be the right thing to do. The sergeant was the one in charge of this squad after all even if he wasn’t currently present. Still, Jazz was leagues above him and if _he_ hadn’t issued an order yet, you didn’t see the point.

            Where was he anyway?

                                                            

            :: _Did you see anyone come up?_ ::

 

            :: _No, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a Con._ ::

 

            :: _Too quiet. They woulda struck by now iffen it was a flyer_ ::

 

            You pushed air out of your vents and flashed your high-beams. There was no use dawdling in the morning sunlight if it’s pastel rays were proving to be ineffective. It was too early for this slag, :: _Turn on your lights_.::

 

            It was a decisive order that when followed, rectified the situation. It wasn’t immediately obvious. There was almost a breem of futile searching on your end before a glittering form slinked out of the shadows cast by various headlights.

            He was a slender mech--mostly shimmering cobalt blue with lots of pearly titanium white—and he moved with a quiet grace that was ridiculously out of place for his current surroundings. He was young and handsome, seemingly delicate with all the curving lines and extra decorative plating, and most importantly, quite unfamiliar to you.

            His strides—quiet, confident, and long--faltered when he found himself the target of potential laserfire. Immediately his frame loosened and his black fingers twitched nervously.

 

            “You’re not supposed to be here,” a strong commanding voice informed even as the commlink flared with voices supplying observations.

 

            :: _No Decepticon brand--_ ::

 

            :: _Yeah but there’s no Autobot brand either_.::

 

            :: _Civilian?_ ::

 

            :: _Not impossible. They’re always curious about what we’re doin’ ova here._ ::

 

            :: _We should have been found him, then. Civilians aren’t that sneaky. Mech’s learned that someplace._ ::

 

            :: _It’s way too early, too. Shouldn’t he recharging?_ ::

 

            “My sincerest apologies. It was not my intention to cause a disturbance,” the golden-opticked mech lilted in a clear pleasant voice. His strange glyphs sent an almost nostalgic flash through your processors. You didn’t encounter them often after all. It was a rather formal style of speaking that most Cybertronians didn’t bother with since most had little need for it if they were familiar with it at all. Obviously this mech was not from the usual castes if _that_ was his default in a tense situation.

 

            “You are an unauthorized trespasser on restricted military property. Leave. _Now_.” Gigabyte stated as he broke through the line of rifles to stand imposingly before his subordinates. He was a large mech with thick cables, even thicker armor, and a severe all-black color-scheme. The only colors he allowed on his frame was his magenta helm, home to long curvaceous horns and strange round orange optics. He was much older than you—old enough that by right he could have been a sergeant by now. You suspected he resisted the move because he preferred the fulfillment of his current position over a higher rank. All that aside, you didn’t think his current course of action was the best one.

 

            :: _Shouldn’t we first figure out what his intentions are before we send him off? I mean, we don’t even know where he’s come from, what he wants, and where he plans to go after we let him off._ :: You didn’t wait for his concession and instead let your voice carry over the distance unidentifiably. “Why are you here?”

 

            Gigabyte grumbled disapprovingly, :: _You really think he’s going to divulge his plot to you so straightforwardly?_ ::

 

            You shifted a little defensively on your hovers, :: _He doesn’t feel malicious to me._ ::

 

            The intruder answered your question before Gigabyte could do more than growl his engine, “It’s… a long story that I imagine you don’t need to hear to get the gist of which is simply that I was terribly curious and quite unable to prevent myself from trying to get the upperhand for when the time came to prove my ability to perform adequately in the army.”

 

            A few weapons drifted from their target involuntarily as the mech continued to prattle.

 

            :: _What_?::

 

            Your field fluttered in amusement.

 

            :: _Definitely a noblemech--_ ::

 

            :: _\--Or a politician. They’re the only ones who say so much without really saying anything at all in the end._ ::

 

            :: _But why would he be_ here _?_ ::

            :: _An officer then. Visiting from another base._ ::

            :: _That decided to stop by a fragging ditch before meeting with the others?_ ::

            The speculation drifted further and further away from probable realities as those gathered determined the young mech was no threat. Strange, nervous, and probably lost but nothing to waste time over. He of course couldn’t hear the conversation going on over the comms—wasn’t likely aware that one was even going on as his optics were too focused on the weapons raised casually in his direction. Not that you blamed him per se. Though you did pity him a little.

            Moving forward, you transformed and made your way to Gigabyte’s side. The others consistently shifted their aim subconsciously to fire around you should the need arise even as they continued to fantasize :: _I’ll take it from here_.::

 

            :: _Are you sure?_ :: His worry was easier to feel in his field than on his face. You appreciated it especially as it was born from his own protective nature and not any doubt on his part of your skill.

 

            :: _Yes. We’re still on a schedule after all. It’s better I deal with this while there’s still nothing for me to do._ ::

 

            His voice did not filter through the comms for a klick though when it did, it was so say, :: _I’m still reporting him_.::

 

            You refrained from showing too much laughter as you inclined your helm, :: _Fine. I’ll gather the necessary information for you_.::

 

            Satisfied, the larger mech turned away and ushered his mecha back down into the torn terrain. The mystery mech relaxed a smidge with his retreat though he still watched you warily as you approached. He reminded you of an insecure mechling. You wanted very much to coddle him—quite convinced now that he’d done little more than make a mistake and was now freaking out about the consequences—though you refrained, “Who are you?”

 

            There was no arguing with your tone. You really did need an answer. Still, you reached your field out confidently to meet his own, tugged in close to his frame and twitching feebly, to show you weren’t there to antagonize him too much, “Mirage, sir. I’m a recruit from the Towers in Altihex.”

 

            You chirped your understanding. At the very least that explained the accent, “[Name]. It’s a pleasure though you should know you’re not allowed to be here until you finish your initial training.”

 

            “I’m aware,” and embarrassment filtered unwillingly into his aura. “I was…relying too heavily on my Gift to shield me. It’s never failed me before though I should have considered the army might have such preventive measures.”

 

            “You’re blessed?”

 

            “Yes!” And he seemed to draw confidence in revealing something he obviously took pride in and liked about himself. It was adorable. Still you couldn’t give into it. He really wasn’t supposed to be here.

 

            “You’re very lucky and I’m sure you’ll do great in the army if you make it through the preliminary training. …Though you’ll never get there if you do things like this that get you in trouble before you even get in. It’s not a good look.”

 

            “Forgive me, sir,” he murmured. To his credit, he didn’t cower or avert his optics. Instead, he took your gentle chastisement quite willingly.

 

            There was a story there. You were sure of it though you didn’t feel it was your place to inquire about it right then. Instead you smiled softly and tilted your helm contritely, “It’s not me you’ll have to apologize to.”

 

            “Nah, it’s alright,” Jazz’s voice melded pleasantly into the air almost as easily as if he’d never left. His frame followed suit just as casually—strolling languidly towards the two of you with a charming smirk curving his full lips. “We’ll call it a training exercise though Ah suggest ya don’t press ya luck, hear meh?”

 

            “Commander!” Jazz’s sudden appearance seemed to at once inspire awe and deep fear in Mirage. His laidback demeanor eased the edge a little but the Towers’ mech was not foolish enough to stay, “Of course. Excuse me, sir.”

 

            You were only a little surprised to see such a wealthy mech transform into such a flashy racemodel. His type always did lean a little towards eccentricity. As he sped away your frame finally loosened completely and you sighed heavily. Jazz pushed his field against yours impishly.

 

            “Ha! That was pretty close, wassinit?” Your field swirled noncommittally in response. He sounded entirely too pleased with himself. And why shouldn’t he be? His charge was managed, his restlessness abated, and no one was the wiser. You wished you could feel as good. “Aww, wha’s wrong, mech?”

 

             “We’re really going to have to set aside a day for this.”

 

             “What, am Ah losin’ mah touch?” He teased. You scowled and folded back down into your alt. His resulting laughter was quiet but rich.

 

             “Yeah, actually.”

 

            “ _Really_?”

 

            “No, but, c’mon, Jazz,” you whined. “No mech can feel fully satisfied on half-overloads and teasing touches for almost six groons. I have needs, too.” You could feel the slag-eating grin in his field. A black and (color) door flicked out and whacked him lightly, “I’m serious!”

 

            “Never said ya weren’t, mech,” he began though you continued to gripe as if you hadn’t heard him.

 

            “Why do _you_ get to have all the fun?”

 

            “Probably cuz ya neva ask fer whatcha want. I mean, Ah’m good but Ah’m no mind-reader.”

 

            That stopped you in your tracks for a moment. He had a point. You had to think before responding, “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe we want different things?”

 

            He shifted his weight and crossed his arms wryly, “Ya mean aside from tha fact yer a relationship-mech an’ Ah’m a social butterfly?”

 

            “Let’s not go backwards, Jazz. I thought we got over that.”

 

            He toned down the playfulness obligingly, “Ah coulda sworn we only agreed that we’d help each other and only each other get off when we needed ta.”

 

            “Well, yes, but has it occurred to you that interfacing might not be the only way to get a mech to relax?”

 

            “What, ya wanna get overcharged?”

 

            “…Sure. Let’s start with that.” You'd said it as a joke but Jazz grinned.

 

            "Cool. See ya later, [Name]!"

 

            You sighed long-sufferingly as you went back to work, feeling more drained than you had before he showed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would take a _very_ long time to write down _every_ time the reader and Jazz met up to do 'business' and most of it would be shameless smut which would be totally fine except there's an actual plot here so for the sake of story progression I tried to subtly weave in exposition and hints of past experiences that helped the two--that is the reader and Jazz--learn each other a bit better without having to type up entire chapters full of mostly useless deadwood. Hopefully the time lapse was not too jarring for you. ^-^
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Rhapsody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz makes good on his promise of booze. You actually have a real conversation! But he promptly regrets it and as is his way, runs his own mind in circles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, again! Thanks for all the love you've given this story so far! I'm glad you're enjoying it! And for those of you just arriving to the scene, thanks for checking this out and I hope _you_ enjoy it! This one's kind of a monster--over 13k last I checked and I wasn't even done yet. I figured I owed you something good after so long a wait.  
>  It was actually a bit of a challenge trying to work this one out. Jazz's mind flows in and out of different ideas so frequently that it's hard getting a linear path of storyteling from his POV. I obsessed over trying to make it make perfect sense until I realized this was Jazz. He's not really supposed to be very easy to read so maybe I should try to show his swirling mentality instead of simplifying it... Anyway! Enough from me! Onward to the story!

            Jazz frowned. Even with the idea on the table, it wasn’t so easy to make time to meet up with you for lengthy casual affairs. Maybe if his lieutenant wasn’t still recovering, he’d feel comfortable enough to leave base for a few joor but with the current conditions, he wouldn’t risk it.

            For one, the Decepticons were much too quiet after having successfully gained a bit of ground from Jazz. Experience told him they were plotting something and since he hadn’t yet figured out what it was he didn’t dare stray too far from his juniors just in case. As the silence dragged on, he suspected that his absence was precisely what they were waiting for which only strengthened his resolve to stay put.

            It made him restless, though, and tense and even a little paranoid. Jazz liked his space and feeling caged in even if it was imposed upon himself by his own judgement left him in less than a stellar mood.

            Usually anyway.

            This time around he found he was coping rather well.

            You provided a rather nice—and more importantly unobtrusive—distraction from the rut he would have otherwise fallen into. Your willingness to indulge his baser needs aside, it was fun—ambushing you and testing your limits and then watching your reactions to the situations he lured you into; watching you delicately wrench back control of a seemingly inescapable reveal with the efficiency befitting an officer; watching you explain away transfluid and lubricant and a sexually frustrated field teek with little more than a pretty smile and a sweet lie.

            It was impressive.

            And sexy.

            And Jazz should feel worse about toying with you like this but he couldn’t help it.

            Part of it was your fault, he reasoned. You knew the kind of mech he was for one. And if you hadn’t picked up on his pattern by now, then surely you deserved what happened to you. Trouble was he suspected you already knew what he was doing (or at least you were starting to) and still you allowed yourself to be roped along anyway.  

            He hadn’t figured out if it was because you liked it, too, or if you were simply indulging him because you knew he needed it but either way, he owed you which was why it frustrated him to realize it was taking him so long to fulfill the only thing you’d asked of him thus far:

            Highgrade.

            A rather simple request even if it was technically not supposed to be on base. He even had his own stash. It was just a matter of setting aside the time. It was an entire orn before he could get your schedules to sync up and even then it happened totally by accident. Every instance before then found you busy with something—usually other squad members and sergeants as the lot of you fussed over the new construction project.

            Even now as he caught sight of your black, white, and (color) form, he could tell you were still working even though the official dayshift was over.

            You weren’t covered in dust and dirt. It was a good sign for Jazz. It meant he didn’t have to wait for you to finish with your team if you’d already visited the washracks. But it was in the flare of your optics, the position of your pedes. Whatever you were talking about with one of his Protihexan Logistics femmes, it was not good. The black and white femme’s tiny double sensor panels flicked agitatedly as she accepted the missive you offered. He suspected the next words out of your mouth were an apology because the femme seemed to wilt—tilting her horned teal helm to the side as she daintily touched your shoulder. She’d accepted then. Not that that assuaged Jazz’s sudden flare of curiosity.

            The problem with being so far up the ladder was that he rarely knew what was happening on the first couple rungs unless they were extremely troubling; and even then his subordinates would only offer a quick mention of it as they were already working on resolutions that only needed his mark of approval. It was a good thing. They were independent, dependable, and efficient. He loved it especially since he typically had his hands full selecting and training and organizing and maintaining the mecha of the Special Operations division.

            He knew that technically he shouldn’t interfere--knew that he should trust his mecha with the jobs they were being compensated to do. And at the same time, he knew he couldn’t be satisfied never knowing what had cast such a heavy cloud over your arcadian countenance.

            He purposefully strolled casually down the hall. It was a little too soon after the femme’s departure in Jazz’s mind to be coincidental though you didn’t seem to notice. He made certain you _did_ notice  _him_ though--tossing his field out to encompass the entire width of the hall and humming a random tune.

            Your (color) helm turned as it should and Jazz couldn’t keep the lopsided grin from pulling at his mouth when your own curled up in recognition, “‘Sup, mech?”

 

            “Hi, Jazz,” you murmured softly. “You seem to be in a good mood. What’s happened?”

 

            “Nuthin’ much. Just happy ta catch ya when ya not busy. You aren’t, are ya?”

 

            Your guard rose quietly as you turned to face him fully, “Not especially…Why?”

 

            “No reason,” he lied. The truth was he’d decided then and there he was going to take you home with him. It wasn’t likely he’d catch you so unburdened for a long time and he didn’t want to wait another orn for the opportunity to re-present itself. He couldn’t take you off base so his quarters would have to do. Outwardly his grin shifted to match how funny he found your cautiousness, “Ya just looked like ya might be. Somethin’ up?”

 

            “Uh…” You vented heavily and ruffled your plating agitatedly. You weren’t so easily comforted by his nonchalance though you did answer his question, “Not especially--”

 

            “Aww, c’mon, [Name]. Ah know ya can lie betteran that.” A rather mild if not altogether mysterious smile pulled at your mouth in response. He both loved and hated it. Those bright smiles you offered everyone else; those were gorgeous and made him feel accordingly. These worked on his circuits and made him think he didn’t know as much as he _knew_ he did—grating on his paranoia and demanding he push harder for confirmation. “You wanna try again or just admit ya don’t wanna talk about it?”

 

            You laughed and Jazz was hard-pressed not to join in. He had to keep it together after all if he wanted an answer from you. For all that you followed his lead, you were unusually good at driving him off track. Typically he fell prey to those little open-ended jokes but not today. He had an agenda, “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. More like I’ve talked about it so much I don’t have anything more to say on the topic.”

 

            “Which would be~?” Jazz hummed, hoping he sounded flippant enough to mask his forcefulness.

 

            You sighed tellingly in that way Jazz was learning meant you would either give in or lower the hammer and turn him away. You weren’t prone to the latter though Jazz would respect it if ever you traveled that route. (After he’d pressed as far as he could of course.)

            It wasn’t like he especially _needed_ you to tell him anyway. He could always go digging on his own. He’d just prefer not to. It was more challenging this way. An entertaining distraction. Still, he could see that subtlety wasn’t going to fly with you this cycle. Steamrolling, it is, he decided.

            He flashed his visor and brushed his fingers against your wrist, “Le’s go, mech.”

 

            Your plating flared briefly in alarm and you pulled away from him, “Go? Where?”

 

           “My quarters. We can’t very well get ‘charged in public.”

 

            A strong burst of amusement slammed into Jazz’s field. It effectively assuaged any minute fears that maybe you didn’t like him as much as you let on--that perhaps you weren’t busy out of necessity but by personal aversion to his company, “Since when has common decorum stopped you before?”

 

            “Hey, Ah do have a reputation, ya know.” He retorted, folding down into his alt and waiting for you to do the same. “There’s a reason we try so hard not ta get caught.”

 

            “Ah-huh, yeah, yeah.” Jazz wiggled impishly on his hovers in response. “Just lead the way, Commander.”

 

            “Why? Ya’ve been there before already,” Jazz teased. It was easy to relax into the familiar back-and-forth now that he’d gotten what he wanted.

 

            “Mhmm~” You hummed your agreement as you followed behind, “And you’ll also recall that it was at the crack of dawn, everything was dark, and I was half-way to recharging. I only knew where to go because you were mumbling directions.”

 

            “Ah don’t remember that at all.”

 

            Your amusement curled over the TIC’s form in response, “Neither do I. It’s just the only thing that makes any sense. I’m not worth much half in recharge, you know.”

 

            “Coulda fooled me,” Jazz offered more for the sake of the conversation than anything else. You divulged into silence anyway, too busy marking your surroundings to bother with idle prattle.

            It was different being on this side of the base during the solar cycle. You almost felt out of place. As an enlisted soldier, you didn’t usually have a need to venture into the on-base neighborhood as it was typically reserved for the high-ranking commissioned officers. The rest of you shacked up in the barracks. Sure, every once in a while the homes here needed a touch up from acid-rain damage or the rare power outage caused by electrical storms swept over from the Sea but other than that, it was a pretty restricted area.

            Jazz’s house didn’t look as big as it was in the darkness of the lunar cycle. You realized with mild embarrassment that what you’d assumed was his room was actually just his living area. The music was still everywhere and so were the shelves of trinkets and bobbles only now the clutter made more sense. Your optics fell to the sofa—large enough to have been mistaken for a berth in your sleep-addled processors—as Jazz sprawled across it, “Have a seat, mech. Ah mean, unless ya wan’ a tour.”

 

            “Oh, no, that’s fine. Thanks for having me over,” you said as you obediently moved forward.

 

            Jazz furrowed his optic ridges behind his visor, “Little late for formalities, ain’t it?”

 

            Your engine spat out a fussy snort at his hairsplitting. You rebuked him by lightly flicking the closest sensor horn as you settled down into the cushions. Jazz chuckled, secretly pleased at having done away with the impromptu stiffness in your struts. He distracted himself from the resulting wave of bliss by watching with a growing smirk as your optics spiraled wide at the flocculent material touching your plating, “Nice, right?”

 

            “Very!” You turned to him with a wide grin that made you look ridiculously young and innocent. Jazz easily fed off of it and his frame felt ten times lighter, “Primus, this is amazing! Where’d you get it from?” You didn’t even bother trying to hide your enjoyment as you half buried yourself under the pillow at your side.

 

            Jazz chuckled and rose to his feet. He’d promised you highgrade after all. No point in dragging it out, “Back home in Polyhex. There was this mech Ah knew lucky enough ta travel Off-World and he made it a point to sell whatever ‘e found in his travels back here.”

 

            “I hope you didn’t spend too much for it. I mean, this is great but it’s not real organic foam.”

 

            “Uh, not quite,” Jazz called back from his kitchen, momentarily surprised you had managed to notice such a thing. Most mecha couldn’t tell the difference between normal metallic fabrics, let alone determine the authenticity of exotic off-world materials. “How’d ya know?”

 

            “My sire was pretty big on collecting big shiny expensive things.”

 

            The words rolled off your glossa with ease and yet you spoke so quickly Jazz could only assume you didn’t really want to talk about it. You didn’t sound particularly bitter. Just distracted. He relaxed a little, “So whatcher sayin’ is ya got some pretty good optics for some pretty nice things.”

 

            His plating warmed when your muffled giggling trickled to his audials and settled in his chassis. There it seemed to disperse into a cloud of heat that left Jazz’s circuits buzzing. He decided then and there that you didn’t do that nearly often enough. Yeah, you chuckled and every now and then you’d bark out a short hoot but they seemed lacking now that he’d heard this one. He didn’t know what about his statement had caused such a reaction but he wasn’t going to ruin it by asking.

            It was easier to tease information from a relaxed target anyway, he reasoned, as he gathered a few cool carafes of highgrade.

 

            “Yes, I suppose I do. And knowing you, you’re going to try and test me out on it,” he heard you say as he collected two small votive glasses.

 

            “Aww, c’mon, [Name],” Jazz griped without any heat. “Don’t go spoilin’ mah plan before Ah can make mah big reveal.”

 

            It took a bit of work to wipe the grin off his face when he returned to the living room. To be fair, he wasn’t trying very hard. It didn’t matter much anyway. He lost the battle when he rounded the corner and saw you curled up in the corner of his sofa, looking like the cutest little peri he’d ever seen.(1) Your pedes were drawn up to your chassis as you reclined into the backrest. Or they would have been if not for the pillow you cradled in your arms and buried most of your faceplates into. The only thing peeking out were your large blue optics—bigger now that they were all Jazz could see aside from the shiny band of black metal encircling your helm like a halo, the (color) diamond-shaped crest glinting at the center, “Comfortable?”

 

            “Very.” He laughed. Your field extended happily before your gaze fell to the source of the delicate tinkling sound filling the air. Your optic ridges shifted in surprise and you uncurled yourself a little to examine the selection. “You really got highgrade.”

 

            “Well, yeah. I told ya that before we got here that tha’ was tha plan.”

 

            You hummed noncommittally, “Yes but I didn’t think you were serious.”

 

            “You don’t wanna drink?”

 

            “Oh, no, I’d love one! Love to!” You reassured. “It’s just--”

 

            “Good. Cuz I wanchata try this one and tell me what it is.”

 

            You cut him a glance that Jazz totally ignored as he pressed a glass into your servos. You continued to stare at him as he stretched out his form and smirked at you expectantly. Really, he didn’t give two scraps about whether or not you could taste test, he just wanted to fulfill your request. You were making it difficult, though. Jazz could admit that it annoyed him a little but then he never did like it when things were too easy. You huffed air out of your vents noisily before making a point of resettling yourself into your makeshift nest as you brought the votive to your lips.

            Jazz watched you sip, noticed the slight tilt in your helm, and the unfocused note in your optics as you tried to consider the flavor. Almost immediately though your mouth wrinkled and you shuttered your optics. Jazz’s field rippled in amusement at your obvious displeasure.

 

            “Well,” you began in a static-filled voice that spoke volumes in and of itself. “That’s very strong. Too strong for me, really, but it’s got a nice heavy flavor. Heady, like either it’s been allowed to settle for vorns, which I doubt considering how thin it still is, or you used a hydrogen sulfide blend and I don’t even know _why_ I’m even taking you seriously right now since you’re _obviously_ getting so much _fun_ out of this…!” You hissed.

 

            Jazz gave up trying to stifle his chuckling and full out cackled. You growled your engine and shoved his shoulder hard enough to jostle him, “Ahg!” His vocalizer momentarily spat out static. “Mech, don’t do that! You’ll make me spill! It’s not _mah_ fault ya don’ like it. Ah happen ta think it’s pretty nice. Goes right to the tanks and hits ya helm hard.”

 

            “Ugh,” you grumbled and scowled at your glass petulantly as it oscillated between your fingers. “I can’t finish this.”

 

            “Ya have to. It’s bad manners if ya don’t.”

 

            “I thought it was too late for formalities,” you snarked though you did bring the energon up to your lips again after a pregnant pause.

 

            Jazz grinned and lurched forward to tip your servo forward. You squeaked in alarm but Jazz didn’t relent, “Best to down it ‘n one go, mech.”

 

            “Mm!” You shuddered and curled away from him.

 

            “Don’t waste it!” Your optics glared balefully at him for a moment—Jazz only beamed--before offlining again as you refocused on the task at hand. Your plating started fluttering as you struggled to keep up with the flow. Jazz giggled and settled back onto his side when your glass emptied.

 

            You hadn’t swallowed yet. Jazz thought it a rather dumb move since it just prolonged the torment but your face was funny enough that he kept his silence.

            You gagged a klick later when your throat cables stopped flexing. Jazz was thankful for the visor what allowed him to stare unabashedly. “Frag you, Jazz!”

 

            Said mech only whirred lightheartedly to himself as he offhandedly downed his own shot, quite unperturbed by the less than savory tang, “Quite certain ya already did that.”

 

            “Oh, _mute_ it,” you growled as you made a show of turning away from him. His cushion quickly found its way back into your arms. A consolation prize for the perceived trick. “Primus that was _dreadful_! You owe me for that.”

 

            Jazz laughed heartily as you continued to glare over at him accusingly, “A’right, a’right. Here, try this one, then.”

 

            You were less willing to accept the glass this time. Still, any taste was better than the one you were currently stuck with so you relented. Jazz took pleasure in watching you take such a tiny hesitant sip. He hadn’t meant for you to hate his favorite highgrade but your resulting paranoia was hilarious to behold. You were quite aware of it, too, if the way your field elbowed him lightly at his side was any indication. “So? Am Ah forgiven?” He asked when even after you’d lowered your glass you kept your silence.

 

            “I dunno yet. That depends on whether or not I can have more of this.”

 

            Jazz guffawed, field fluttering an accompaniment as he obliged and tilted the carafe, “Ah knew ya’d like that one.” Your field flickered curiously and Jazz elaborated. “It’s super sweet just like you~” He crowed.

 

            You flickered your optics and rose from your seat, “You don’t have to go _that_ far.” Your field brushed against his, bright and happy despite all the heat you were verbally presenting him. “What is it? Rust-infused or carbon filtered?”

 

            “Ya can’t tell?” Jazz asked as he watched you wander slowly towards the walls of his living room.

 

             You hummed and Jazz couldn’t say if it was in response to his question or the decorative eggs he’d acquired from a Vosian novelty shop. They were pretty hard to come by mostly because Vos was largely inaccessible to land-based frame types, “It’s easier to tell the difference when they’re warm. The rust will change the color of the energon and float to the top if you boil it long enough. Of course the flavor is ruined by that point unless you like the sharp difference between sweet and sour…” Your vocalizer let out an unbidden curious whistle as you came across something of interest. “You listen to classical?”

 

            “Ah listen ta anythin’ that sounds good.”

 

            “Fair enough,” you conceded and continued to peruse that section of his music collection. It was truly a tiny portion. There were albums scattered all over his house on tapes and video chips. He even had a couple from an artisan in Praxus where the tracks were actually imbedded into the singing crystals he carved. That’d been ridiculously heavy on his accounts but he could never bring himself to regret it.

 

            “You have a _lot_ of music,” you thought aloud. “I mean, I knew as much but it’s still a little unreal to actually see it. How do you keep track of it all?”

 

            Jazz shrugged and settled back on the couch after pouring himself another shot, “Genres, places of origin, artists, style, instruments, tempo…It’s really not so hard.”

 

            “Then you must be one amazing organizer,” you commented reverently. Jazz tried not to preen too heavily. Honestly, if there was one thing he missed when interacting with you, it was the subconscious worship everyone else lavished upon him that you skipped over in favor of laidback crackshots. Jazz knew he couldn’t have everything. He wasn’t a sparkling. But he was still going to take every bit of what you were willing to offer all the same.

 

            Blatant compliment fishing, he’d learned, only steered you away from praising him. On the flip side, if he made a show of appearing humble…“Not really. Dropkick’s betteran me at it. Mine’s only good as long as it stays in mah processors. Tha second Ah start tryna put it all down and make a _real_ system, it falls apart.”

 

            You smiled a little, “That sounds about right though I still think any bit of navigating of this on your part is impressive. And you’ve really collected a lot of it, too. I think it’s good you’re so passionate about something.”

 

            Jazz considered that and hummed amicably, “Ya say that like you don’ have any interests.”

 

            “Not any that warrant _this_ level of obsession,” you admitted. “I suppose I’ve taken after my sire with my interest in collecting nice things though it’s pretty involuntary.”

 

            “Really?”

 

            You hummed affirmatively, “I only notice it when I’m asked to request gifts and my would-be givers wince.” Jazz laughed. Your smile shifted into a small light-hearted grin, spurred on by his positive reaction. “Needless to say, I’ve gotten _very_ used to not getting what I want. My collection is rather unimpressive.”

 

            “Ya can play sumthin’ if ya like,” Jazz offered when the ensuing silence stretched on too long for nerves.

 

           You glanced over your shoulder and gazed at him with wide optics, “Truly?”

 

            Jazz chuckled and nodded his helm, “Go for it.”

 

            And yet even with his permission, you visibly hesitated, “…I’d rather you did it. This is your home after all. I don’t want to overstep--”

 

            “Yer not,” Jazz insisted though he rose fluidly and made his way over to your side all the same. “Wha’ dya like?”

 

            “Depends on my mood to be honest. It’s okay, though. You can play what you wa--”

 

            Jazz tilted his helm and peeked at you from underneath his visor, “Mech, Ah like everything Ah’ve got. Anything ya choose is gonna be fine just pick sumthin’.” When you _still_ wavered Jazz brushed his field against yours insistently.

 

            Finally you said, “What do you listen to when you want to relax?” and Jazz wrote it off as a lost cause.

 

            Taking matters into his own hands, the TIC pinged his sound system. A welcoming diddy resonated throughout the room, seeming to come from every corner at once. A black holoscreen littered with pale yellow writing suddenly appeared on the plain stretch of wall behind the couch. You stepped away to examine it as Jazz remotely pulled up a random playlist. His selections were mirrored on the screen that shifted and selected tabs based on his navigations. He made sure to lower the volume before pressing play. Most mecha couldn’t stand the decibels he listened to music at.

            A deep reverberating tone suddenly and sharply rent the air. The deeper note drowned out the second—the same only on a slightly higher octave--with the clavier’s tendency to hum. The effect was used to this piece’s advantage as the following high notes stood out starkly in comparison. The bass cleft remained constant; only striking again when the vibrating had faded away too much. The treble cleft struck but three notes at a time in a stair-stepping descent, slowly moving further and further down until it threatened to start humming as the bass was wont to do. At this point, the scale would resume from the top and descend again along the same path. There were no percussions. No obvious tempo. No elaborate harmonies…Just a short, simple, soothing, and very repetitive drone. It would end as it began, with that one throbbing note lingering on until this time it fell determinedly into silence. In the meanwhile, Jazz watched you closely.

 

            “Feel free ta skip anythin’ ya don’t like,” he offered when you didn’t provide any feedback. He felt strangely self-conscious about it, too, though he knew he shouldn’t. He had great taste. Still, it was one thing to know so for yourself and entirely another to have a different person agree. Jazz found himself hoping rather anxiously that you did. Most mecha were prone to after all. Jazz tended to follow the popular trends. But he knew for a fact that you navigated on a slightly different wavelength than most. He hadn’t managed to pinpoint exactly where you were though experience lent him that mecha of your sort tended to be rather unimpressed with mainstream productions.

            Your silence prevailed.

            The first song was short and clearly not something you felt particularly connected to as your attention drifted away. But then the second snuck in without warning.  

            He knew the moment you’d started to listen. Your optics brightened in surprise at both the soft ghosting instrumental piece that came in firmly and the fact that it seemed to come from everywhere at once. You didn’t move. You barely vented. Your optics flickered off as you continued to ignore their input.

            Jazz was similarly affected, not because of the grandeur but as a result of the sheer bliss that assaulted his frame. He literally trembled when the soundwaves hit his sensor horns and set them thrumming faintly. The world seemed to fall away as the composer weaved minors of sorrow and perseverance and the bittersweet battle between the two with strong drums and the flowing, even, dark resounds of a clarion.

 

            “Who is this?” You asked quickly, quietly, unwilling to interrupt such a beautiful sound but unable to contain the desire to know all the same.

 

            Your voice edged Jazz out of his reverie and his visor came back on in a dim blue light. It took him only a nanoklick to pick out your glyphs from the bouncing vibrations his sensor horns were bombarding him with though to him it felt like forever, “Camedor.” He could tell from your field that this answered nothing so he expounded a little. “He was a gorgeous mechling from Tyrest. Tall with a strange black and white style.”

 

            You cast a wry glance at him that Jazz returned. You didn’t bother stating the obvious though and instead leaned across to grab the carafe of the sweet energon highgrade, “Was?”

 

            Jazz’s smile threatened to fall. He let his visor go dark again as he tipped his helm back against the armrest to hide. “Was,” he said firmly. “He became a ‘Con.”

 

            “...” Jazz could feel your gaze on him. He wished you’d just go back to listening quietly. He hoped you would if he pretended to do so himself. And you did. Only you also extended your field out gently to graze his sympathetically. “…You knew him.”

 

            “I offlined him.”

 

            He took aberrant pleasure in feeling your field flinch against his. At least then he knew it was perfectly normal to be so tortured by such a thing regardless of what his training would have said.

            To your credit, you did not lie to him about it being okay. You also didn’t let discomfiture ensnare the atmosphere. This was war, after all. Things like that were bound to happen. Instead you settled back into a more reverent teek and murmured, “A shame. He was very talented.”

           

            You titled your helm as the song suddenly crescendoed. The smooth glide suddenly became choppy and unrefined but no less mesmerizing. “But also very clearly frustrated with the world. I think a spark that could convey this much hopelessness would feel relieved to escape it.”

 

            Jazz didn’t respond beyond taking his shot. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. The only reason he even remembered it instead of having his memory wiped clean of it was because he thought it a grave disservice to the mech he once loved.

            He hadn’t meant for this song to play. That was the downside of random shuffling. He couldn’t bring himself to change it either. He didn’t want to make the situation awkward by showing how it bothered him. Thankfully, this too was a short piece and the next few tracks weren’t nearly so introspective.

            They were flashy feats of skill, whizzing up and down and around a set of core notes, testing out different instruments over the same paths to create entirely different sounds…essentially idle listening that could settle easily into the background as he watched you rise again to inspect a low shelf off the hall to his dining room.   

            That bright grin returned and saturated your field as you crowed, “Oh, wow, I haven’t seen these since I was tiny!”

 

            The resulting image made Jazz grin.(2) You were already slagging adorable. He couldn’t image it got any better when you were smaller with even larger optics and a baby-face. Admittedly the latter lingered quite a bit especially when you smiled. You stepped to the side and gestured towards a row of adolescent games. He expected you to ask him _why_ so when you wondered _where_ instead he found himself relaxing (when had he tensed) into the cushions.

 

            “Before Ah was stationed here, Ah was in Tyrest. A couple younglins there got us presents ta say ‘thanks’. Ya know, fer protectin’ their city an’ all.”

 

            Your grin widened and your optics softened in color, “How charming.”

 

            “Yeah.” It occurred to him only subconsciously that he’d assumed you’d ridicule him for having them in his possession regardless of his reasoning. When you didn’t he endeavored to elaborate a little more on the fond memory. “They thought we looked bored so they gave us a few of their favorite toys. Mosta tha others didn’t have a need for ‘em so Ah took ‘im once we split.”

 

            You nodded your head as you continued to scrutinize the shelf. “I assumed it was somewhere in that region. These aren’t games you find just anywhere. My favorite was always this one,” you said, pointing to a medium-sized flat gameboard. It was off now but when people sat down to play, the screen would light up and previously invisible grid lines would cover the surface. Jazz hadn’t really gotten into it beyond that. “I always chose (f/c). Well, until I got too good and my cognates decided I wasn’t allowed to play anything beyond referee anymore.” (3)  

 

            Jazz’s visor brightened a little, “Ah didn’ know ya had cognates.” That was probably how you came to possess such a nurturing spark. He didn’t have any of his own—most mecha didn’t as creating was a ridiculously expensive endeavor for the average Cybertronian—but he understood the dynamic well enough.

 

            Your field took on a very fond teek as you bobbed your helm slowly, “Mmm. I am the First.”

 

            “Huh,” Jazz took a sip of his energon. Talking about family was always a hit or miss these days. Everyone had lost someone and it was hard to tell how close that loss hit home. It was almost an unspoken rule to dance around such topics but your reaction hadn’t been dismissive like his. He decided to pry a little. “Fightin’, too?”

 

            It wasn’t unusual for entire family units to join together especially too close to a warzone. It helped ease the financial burdens as far as he’d observed and the combat training certainly didn’t hurt anything. But a deep frown flickered across your face. You turned away before he could see too much though and said in a tellingly neutral tone, “No. They’re too young to be involved.”

 

            “…Yer pretty young, too, mech.”

 

            You bristled a little, “Right, because _you’re_ so ancient.”

 

            Jazz grinned humorlessly and tilted his helm, “Older ‘an you.” You whirled around, ready to start on him but he only turned away and dimmed his visor. “Listen. Ah’m not pressin’ ya or anythin’…Guess just wondrin’ why someone like ya joined tha Autobots when ya could be doin’ just about everythin’ else.”

 

            He felt you staring at him, gauging whether or not you should continue to be cross with him. In the end, your field mellowed out and you sighed, “I could wonder the same though I suppose you _did_ ask first…”

 

            When you fell silent Jazz stirred and after a klick asked, “…Ya gonna tell me or--”

 

            He felt your smirk brush across his frame. A moment later, your quiet venting at the side of his helm, “No.”

 

             Jazz huffed, “Tease.”

 

            You chuckled. Jazz watched you flop unceremoniously onto the couch next to him. "You tease me, too. I think you deserve a little retribution.”

 

            That caught Jazz’s attention. His grin shifted lopsidedly, "Oh, is that so?"

 

            "Yes," you replied and set down what you had brought over from his shelf between you. It was the boardgame. "Indulge me."

 

            The skepticism must've shown on his face because you tilted your helm coyly and tapped at the now pale white screen criss-crossing itself with gridlines. "Or are you afraid to lose?"

 

            Now,  _that_ was enough to rile Jazz's sensabilites a bit. Did you know he was competitive? Or was it just something you were hoping for? Either way, he had no qualms with giving in, "Ya would be wise not ta challenge meh, mech."

 

            Jazz knew from experience that the subharmonics he used in these sentences typically had even his friends shifting uncomfortably at the sudden sense of impeding danger. You must've been good at hiding your own because you did not wither even a smidgeon. Instead your field shifted to provoke his subtle threat even further, "I missed that part of initial training. Care to teach me? That's if you can, of course..."

 

            "A'right, ya asked for it."

 

            You smiled calmly, "I did. D'you know how to play? Should I go easy on you?"

 

            "Frag no. Ah'll catch on an' Ah'll beat ya at ya own game."

 

            You laughed and touched a single digit to the board, a (f/c) dot showing up on the screen where it touched, "In true Jazz fashion, hmm? Well, alright, then."

 

            Your finger moved about the edges of the board, outlining it in (f/c), the small pleased grin never leaving your lips.

            When you made it back to your side and closed the square you had made, the entire board filled in and flashed with (f/c). Words appeared on the expanse and a voice cheered, " _Winner! Play again_?"

 

           Jazz's visor dimmed as his optics spiraled in confusion. Your field fluttered against his in a poor effort to conceal your amusement. You had the decency not to point out the obvious and instead asked in a tightly controlled tone, "Wan' me to--"

 

            "No," Jazz almost barked. This didn't count. You'd set him up. That was fine though. Once he figured it out, he would crush you.

 

            "Okay," you conceded in a voice even more strained than before. Jazz huffed quietly through his vents and instead watched as you once again brought a finger to the board. He copied you this time and a red mark appeared under his touch. 

            He didn't miss the way your optics flickered over to watch him. They moved away quickly as you dismissed his lethality and immediately after you started drawing again. 

            Jazz, for his part, still did not quite understand what he was supposed to be doing. You were going around the grid again though so he figured it wouldn't kill anything to mimic you. Instead of going along the whole board though, you split it in half. At connecting your rectangle, the empty space flashed to fill it in with your color. Jazz paused, trying to understand what this could mean. It was only for a moment but you'd never stopped drawing either. The TIC didn't even know he was in trouble until you closed the remaining side of the board, filled it with (f/c), and the victory message popped up again.  

            "Aww, tha's not right, mech."

 

            "Hahah!" You giggled, quite unable to hold it back any longer. Jazz grumbled as your finger moved shakily back to the board. "I asked if you needed help! You said no!"

 

            "Because I _don't_."

 

            You forced air out of your nose to cover up an amused snort, "'Kay."

 

            And once again you cleared the board and started over. This time Jazz wasn't quite so clueless. He swiftly made his mark, ready to start his own claim of the board before you could get it first. You let him, quite unconcerned with where he was drawing. You even drew over his own marks, something that Jazz didn't know was possible and stole his attention more than it should have. The large swatch of red he'd claimed was unceremoniously split in half--reduced to (f/c) and still shrinking in size as you continued to draw over him.

            You weren't at all alarmed when Jazz started intercepting your own field. He might have wondered why if you hadn't finished closing up the rest of the board in (f/c) a nanoklick later.

 

            "You gotta draw faster next time," you offered as the game chimed again. "It doesn't count 'less you close the square."

 

            Jazz didn't respond, fully focused on one-upping you in the next bout and unwilling to be caught off guard when it began. 

 

            "Did you wanna set a time limit?" You ventured when the game had once again ended in your favor. 

 

            "Is that a handicap?"

 

            You tossed a glyph around in your vocalizer contemplatively, "Depends on how you wanna look at it. All it really means is you don't automatically lose just 'cause I claim the board. It's whoever's held on to the most space at the end."

 

            "Ah have a feelin' it won't matter either way."

 

            A cute grin suddenly tugged at the corners of your mouth though you tried chivalrously to suppress it. You weren't successful, "Most likely not."

 

            "This game shouldn't be as hard as it is," Jazz grumbled as his fingers moved across the board in erratic patterns along with your own.

 

            You chuckled and bobbed your helm in agreement, "It's a game for sparklings. It's not hard at all. I think you're just feelin' the high grade."

 

             Jazz pursed his lips and clicked his vocalizer, “Fine. How’s about a _different_ game.”

 

            He expected you to be skeptical. You usually were whenever he suggested things spontaneously. Maybe it really was the highgrade. Or maybe you were just getting more comfortable with him. Maybe it was the fact that you were not surrounded by potentially prying optics, too. That probably took a decent weight off your shoulders. Either way this time you merely leaned further back and folded your legs on the seat cushion and spoke with humor lining your glyphs rather than shying away and casting furtive glances about the vicinity, “What kind of game?”

 

            “Well~” Jazz drawled and shifted the board aside so he could face you, mimicking your legs’ positioning and leaning forward slightly. “It’s simple. A special game we play in Ops to learn how to catch liars in their tracks.”

 

            “I’m listening…” You sing-songed and giggled at him from behind the rim of your latest glass. It gave him an idea.

 

            “Ah’ll tell ya three things about mahself. You havta guess which one’s tha truth and which ones’ tha lies. If ya guess wrong, ya gotta take a shot of the nasty stuff.” Your lips twisted a little. Jazz grinned.

 

            “An’ if I win?”

 

            “Ooh, well, in that case, you can congratulate yaself on being able ta do tha impossible.”

 

            “That’s not very fair, though, is it? I mean, you’re clearly gonna win this game and _I’m_ gonna be the one charged through the roof.”

 

            "Ya not a sore loser, are ya?"

 

            "No, but I think that just 'cause you refused my help on a game I'm good at doesn't mean you should set me up to fail on this one."

 

            “…Fine. I’ll tell ya _two_ truths an’ a lie. You get to guess which one’s are the truth an’ you’ll only be punished for the second guess ya get wrong and when it’s mah turn, you can choose whichever combination ya wan’ and Ah’ll haveta drink iffen Ah get it wrong.”

 

            “Mmm...” You visibly tried to analyze those rules to see if there was a hidden advantage but your processors were a bit too fuzzy for such nitpicking. You’d just have to chance it. “Kay. You go first.”

 

            “A’right, well.” Jazz pulled his lips up into a disarming lopsided grin and said, “Ah came online in Polyhex 16, 733 vorns ago, Ah used to be all silver, and Ah have a twin called Meister.”

 

            Jazz watched your optics cycle as you scrutinized him closely, trying to pick out any telling quirks. You wouldn’t find any but it was still amusing to watch you try. Besides this one was easy. “I think…there’s no way there could be _two_ of you runnin’ around so the Polyhex one and the all-silver one haveta be true.”

 

            Jazz let his smile even out, “Good job, mech. No shots for ya. Yer turn.”

 

            You hummed thoughtfully for a moment. Jazz took the time to dial up the sensitivity on his sensor horns, “…I’m from Tyrest. I never worked in my current field ‘til I joined the army and…my optics’re naturally blue.”

 

            Jazz cocked his helm. Even without his sensor horns cluing him in to your subtle body tells, he sincerely doubted anyone could just waltz into construction with as much success as you have without any previous experience. It was a mild trick question. And while blue was certainly a beautiful color on you, the reading he got from your field told him that another color had probably looked better. You didn’t seem quite rugged enough to have come from Tyrest though so Jazz said, “Yer lyin’ on two. Yer not from Tyrest and ya optics aren’t really blue.”

 

            Your field flushed in approval, “Your turn.”

 

            “Ah used ta perform at a club in Praxus even though Ah can’ sing. Ah’m a pretty good dancer, though.” Silence lagged between you. Jazz glanced up into your face and laughed at the incredulity he saw staining your expression. “Well?”

 

           “Well, gimme a klick! This one’s not so easy.”

 

            “Ya got two chances. Jus’ guess.”

 

            “Y'know,” you began pleasantly and Jazz had to stop himself from laughing to hear what he knew was going to be a hilarious rebuttal. “I’m gonna find summin’ that tastes _sooooo_ awful your tanks will literally roll when you smell it and then I’ll force _you_ to eat it whenever you make a mistake and we’ll see how fast you come up with an answer to a problem.”

 

            “A’right, a’right, take ya time then. Ah’ll be here,” he smirked and turned his attention back to his music.

            It was never far from his awareness when it played. It didn’t help that his sensor horns were feeding him very delicious and decidedly distracting resonances by compliments of his music. This was a quieter song for the most part, trailing up and down the same four notes with a simple wind instrument, changing only one note in the scale every eight measures or so.

 

            It took a couple songs and a lot of quiet (and admittedly comically) idle staring before you could come up with a response.

 

            “I say…the lie is you can’t sing,” you said finally. Jazz’s lips pulled up into a grin. It wasn’t a bad guess. None of them would be considering his interests but you were still wrong. “But then--” and your lips pulled down into a frown “—wouldn’t that mean the other two would be true or would one of the others be a lie…I mean, the two truths would be you bein’ able to sing and dance so the lie would have to be the Praxian club but I already chose a lie so…”

 

            Jazz cackled, “So ya have ta drank either way, mech.”

 

            You balked, “I only guessed once!”

 

            “An’ it was fer tha lie. _You’re_ supposed ta guess the two truths.”

 

            “… _What_?” Your helm was starting to hurt.

 

            Jazz laughed harder at the delectably petulantly confused tilt of your optic ridges. “Just take tha shot, [Name].”

 

            You pouted at him unhappily as you begrudgingly accepted the glass, “I don’t _like_ you right now.”

 

            “Tha’s a’right, mech, but it’s still ya turn.”

 

            “Fine. I _don’t_ like you. I _hate_ sweets. An’ I’ve been off-world more times than I can count.”

 

            “All lies,” Jazz crooned almost immediately.

 

            You leaned forward coyly and swished the contents of a carafe, “Drink up, mech.” You teased.

 

            Jazz huffed a laugh, “Don’t botha me none.”

 

            “Yeah, I’m sure it doe’n’t,” you mused as you poured another glass of the sweet stuff to wash away the horror of the first.

 

            “A’right! Mah turn! Ah really like music, Ah used ta have sens’r panels, an’ Ah wanted ta be a professional racer when Ah’s a younglin’.”

 

            Jazz marked your unhappy grumble and grinned mischievously as he settled back against the couch to wait. He’d practically given one away and you were still likely to guess wrong.

 

            He didn’t know how long he sat. The highgrade would have settled in by this point either way. His energy levels were certainly high enough.

            Despite feeling so ready to go, his processors had long since begun to slow.  

            When his visor finally flickered back on--dim and pixelated as his CPU struggled under all the crisscrossing input all his other sensors were feeding him—you were squatting at his side. Your balance was rather questionable even though your servos were gripping onto his couch like your functioning depended on it. From the stupid happy teek of your field, Jazz didn’t think it was so far from the mark. Your huge optics gazed at him placidly as if you’d been doing so for quite some time. It was creepy as the Pits until that breathtaking grin split your face. He found himself quite blinded by it and almost missed it when you said, “…You… _reeeeally_ like music, don’t you?”

 

            Jazz gazed at you blearily for a klick as he tried to shift his focus to your comment, “I’s tha’ sens’r ‘orns.”

 

            The words were a little slurred and made worse by his accent though you didn’t seem to have any trouble following along. Your gaze shifted upwards in response to his admission and you cooed appreciatively, “They’re _are_ cute. Jus’ like _you_ , Jazz. Super cute like I’m a super sweet.” You giggled and though you weren’t loud or obnoxious, that sober part of Jazz’s CPU—shrunken and pushed to the back to watch the upcoming proceedings patiently--just _knew_ you were buzzed. You had to be or Jazz had officially lost it.

 

            No, seriously. He had to have missed something here because it seemed to him that your face was getting closer. His proximity sensors itched.

            Despite Jazz’s mild intoxication, he still responded correctly—sitting up and placing a black servo directly over your entire faceplates. He’d intended to cover just your mouth but, well, this worked, too, he thought sluggishly.

            The movement toyed with his balance a little. He worked through it diligently as you gazed at him confusedly. A klick later the situation caught up with you, however, and when it did frustration flared briefly in your field.

            You pouted. Jazz could feel it against his palm. It felt eerily similar to the thing he’d just dodged…

            He jerked back as if he’d been burned, glaring at you like he might a naughty sparkling, “No kissin’.”

 

            You clicked your vocalizer in acute displeasure and slumped forward into his lap, “Aww, but Jazz~!” You whined.

 

            “Nah.”

 

            “But _why_? You’re so _cute_ and I just-just wanna show you how much I _like_ your _face_ an’-an’…” For a second you seemed to lose your thread. Your face cleared of emotion and you gazed blankly at the ceiling…

 

            …until you remembered and your pout returned. “An’ you won’t _let_ me!”

 

            “Ah dun’ like it,” Jazz said imperiously as if that simple statement alone was the answer to every problem in the world.

            Wouldn’t that be nice? To get rid of everything Jazz didn’t like? To solve all the problems in the world with just one word? He should really figure out how to do that… 

 

            “ _Really_?” Your voice successfully scattered his line of thought. Your helm tilted _all_ the way to the side in an exaggerated, ridiculous expression of surprise. “But who _doesn’t_ like that?”

 

            Jazz didn’t know why he felt so compelled to try to find you a real answer. He knew it wasn’t but somehow it still _felt_ like the most important question he’d ever heard in his entire functioning. He wasn’t having much luck coming up with one though. 

 

            “Oh, Primus! Jazz!”

 

            Your sudden gasp paired with the relentess grip on his shoulders as you raised yourself up to hover over him shocked him from his musings, “Wha~? W’a’s…Ha…?” He couldn’t figure out the other syllables that were supposed to go with that and instead divulged into giggles when he saw the look on your face. You looked so stupefied. He couldn’t figure out from the first what could have caused such a thing but it was hilarious all the same.

 

           “Jazz!”

 

            “Ya, mech,” he cooed and patted your helm for absolutely no reason beyond wanting to do so.

 

            “Oh, Primus!” You chirped.

 

            And Jazz laughed again.

 

            “I’m dizzy.” Your grin returned and you dipped your helm. It made his spark beat nervously but it seemed that even overcharged, you were a good mech and you did not attempt to kiss him again. Instead you pressed your diamond crest to his helm and nuzzled him. He flinched as a sharp tremor wracked through his frame.

            Well.

            That was different.

 

            “Awww~! Jazz! Your laugh is _pretty_. You should do it more.”

 

            “So should ya,” he muttered distractedly. Your touch--unusually amorous, heavy, and hot—combined with the highgrade seemed to be the catalysts what transformed the overpowering sensory input from his horns into blazing arousal.

            They weren’t usually so sensitive to physical contact. And even now, he couldn’t say that you physically touching them was what caused the change. No, it was you, period, and your proximity. Your high temperature, the flow of your vents brushing over them teasingly, your vocalizer’s pitch, even your spark’s frequency (usually a _very_ difficult thing to pick up for a plethora of reasons though your curiously strong pulse probably had a slagload to do with it) sung full blast to Jazz in the most perfect of ways.

            Ironically, you didn’t seem to notice, blissfully snuggling into the side of his helm as you were.  

 

            “Oah, but I can’t, Jazz, I _can’t_!” You all but squealed.

 

            Jazz growled his displeasure. “Why _not_?” He demanded boorishly. He did not like being denied what he wanted especially when he wasn’t in the right mind to be reasonable.

 

            “‘Cuz I’m _tired_ and having fun takes too much energy,” you explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world--gazing at him with a clear concern for his intelligence even as you yourself struggled to make sense of the world.

 

            Jazz hummed and considered that to the best of his ability. After a time, his field flushed with pleasure; quite proud of the solution he came to as he used his knees to overbalance you.

            It didn’t work out quite the way he’d imagined. For one his own balance was pretty shot and for another, you were holding onto him a lot tighter than he’d initially suspected.

            Fortunately you landed lengthwise against the seats of the couch instead of tipping over onto the low table. Jazz giggled when your optics spiraled wide in surprise as you gazed at some random point passed his helm. Or maybe you were trying to look at him and your vision was slagged? Either way, you were right where Jazz wanted you and he didn’t intend to dawdle.

            Your focus was drawn to the situation when Jazz started to press his hands insistently against your shoulders and upper chassis, pinching wires and brushing hidden latches in your armor teasingly, “What’re you doin’?”

 

            “Yer tired. But Ah’m revved up so Ah’ll do all tha work.” His thighs clenched on either side of your own as he rocked his interfacing panels against your pelvis. The heat there was still minimal but it would intensify. You were too enticing and it didn’t help that you were in Jazz’s favorite position.

            And this time he didn’t even have to rush.

            Slow build-ups weren’t usually Jazz’s preference but it served him well on this occasion especially since it was hard to keep track of time when even simple things like ‘up’ were more or less indistinguishable from ‘down’.

            The dialed up sensory data from his horns did precious little to help his processors collect themselves. He was swimming in an overwhelming pool of sensations that only grew in size as your own servos clumsily sidled up his frame to pull at his thighs. The plating was still very hard so early in Jazz’s arousal but your ceaseless kneading soon spread enough warmth to stimulate the hidden pressure nodes and sensitive wires criss-crossing underneath.

            Your own spike did not need much coaxing to greet the cover of Jazz’s valve covering. It’s sudden tiny tap against the warm metal shocked both of you. Jazz felt his desire skyrocket, physically manifested in the sudden angling of his hips struts. Both servos abandoned their places on his legs in response. One moved up to grasp now at his aft while the other took up self-pleasuring, teasing the tip against his cover, smearing tiny drops of moisture against it, waiting patiently for Jazz to give in.

            The Polyhexian grunted in the midst of the desire hammering against his resolve. It wasn’t that he didn’t want your spike. He just knew he was capable of wanting it even _more_. And yet he couldn’t resist a _tiny_ reprieve and his spike released against your abdominal plating.

            He felt his systems flush as your optics were immediately drawn to it. Such undivided attention--so much so that even your own servo abandoned your spike in favor of toying with his--was too much for someone so used to attention being lavished solely to his valve.

            Jazz’s hips jerked sharply against the firm grip, lubricant pooling against his remaining cover as his hips undulated in time with your own subtle but fruitless thrusting. All the while your other servo never ceased its flexing--pushing and pulling against the metal of his aft, his hips, his thighs, the small of his back struts.

            It felt oh so nice. Different from the wet, messy, sticky roughhousing Jazz usually engaged in. This was more relaxing, a sweet build up to something he didn’t have to focus too much on. He could just feel and enjoy and revel in the gentle warmth dancing along his circuits, piling up and up, making the shallow pool of pleasure deeper and deeper until Jazz felt as though he were drowning in an entire ocean of hazy drunken pleasure.

            It wasn’t until the first overload had successfully stripped away most of the extra energy garnered from the highgrade that his helm started to feel less brimful.

            Not that his desire had been diminished at all. The sight of his bright glowing transfluid daring entrance into your mouth from his exuberant spurting ensnared him once again before he could even think to resurface.

            You had not overloaded with him. Your spike still had a small ways to go before it pressurized fully but Jazz was not willing to deny himself for much longer.

            Shuffling to the side so as to kneel at the side of the couch, Jazz took your spike into his servo and closed his lips around the tip. Your frame jerked in surprise, helm snapping up to gaze at him blearily.

            Usually, Jazz noted absently, you were content to let him work at whatever pace he set for this particular act. He supposed the high grade loosened your restraint a little though because while you weren’t obnoxious in your movements, he could tell you were pushing up into him. Your tip reached further back into his intakes than he’d intended on each downstroke and though Jazz had no trouble accommodating, the difference was always unexpected.

            Not reaching your peak had not meant that you weren’t almost there. Jazz could taste the faint traces of transfluid waiting just beyond the reach of his glossa. And you were wet--having leaked profusely during the earlier grinding session. He swallowed the excess liquid, slurping messily against your spike in a way that forced your helm back against his cushions, small desperate mewls mixing in with the soft music still drifting from Jazz’s playlist.

            He’d not heard you make that particular sound in a while. So uninhibited by possible discovery. So needy. So pliant. So willing. So _ready_. He couldn’t resist it and scrambled back across your lap as quickly as his jellied limbs would allow for.

            He did not face you, certain that he could not watch your face and stave off his overload long enough to get you off if he did.

            Maybe if he turned off the music, reduced the data he was being fed through his horns--give his mind a slight break from tap dancing on the edge of coherency. Maybe if he did this slowly instead of the furious chase to his second release his valve demanded he take. Maybe then; but neither were compromises Jazz was willing to make and as he lowered himself slowly onto your spike, stretching his insides and clamping down on you to make it even tighter, he found he could only praise himself for the decision. Your cries of pleasure stabbed straight to his core and more than made up for the short ride Jazz would have to make of this.

            He spread his thighs wide open—even wider than yours so that his center rested flat against your pelvis. He tested the position with a few experimental thrusts. You did not complain but Jazz knew he could fit more. He knew you could press against the cap blocking his chamber if he did it right and Primus there was nothing quite like feeling faint pressure against that special place. He’d had so few partners with the dimensions to do it properly and yet with you it was so easy. A slight shift in the angle…rising up on his pedes instead of flexing on his knees…and there it was.

            Electricity rippled through his frame, leaving faint tremors in its wake. He could not take you in any further if he tried.

            The pressure was exquisite. The restricted area whispered of intense pleasure even sweeter than the ecstasy he’d already accomplished up til this point. And there was no harm in heeding it—no danger in creating a mistake by following the most base lines of coding that demanded he try to connect you to his gestation chamber. The cap made sure of that and Jazz took great gratification from abusing it. Each slam of his hips downwards, each clench of his valve, each drag, each slide, each electric sizzle racing up his spine. Each moan, every whine, plea, and praise--all of them coalesced into a second, smaller, but no less suffocating pool of bliss that snatched Jazz underneath like a tidal wave.

 

            No doubt he’d managed to knock himself offline.

            His systems literally purred as the very last of the tingling in his frame receded. He allowed himself to bask in the afterglow…

            It was a rare thing.

            Jazz didn’t like to be vulnerable for very long. He was always up and out as soon as his frame gave him the a-okay.

            A lot of it had to do with his venues of choice. He couldn’t risk being caught out alone and defenseless even among mecha who didn’t know the full extent of his identity. Here, though; here was nice. There was no safer place than his own home in the center of a strong Autobot military base and he was almost lulled into standby by your own languid repose at his side.

 

            “You know we never finished the game,” your groggy voice murmured. He chanced a glance over, expecting to meet a pair of optics flickering with a faint sated light. Instead he found a frame barely online enough to be saying the words renting the air. You were still out of it.

 

            The resulting grin was involuntary, “Nah. Ah think ya lost in any case.”

 

             You didn’t even bother to argue his logic and instead offered a tired long exvent, “Figures.”

 

            Jazz laughed airily, too satisfied to bother with anything more than that and quite comfortable enough not to.

           Old habits die hard though and it was only a matter of breem before the warmth steered towards too hot and your frame curled around his felt more like a cage than an escape from reality.

            He grumbled and wiggled restlessly, hoping you would take the hint on your own without him having to risk ruining the good mood. You didn’t. It annoyed Jazz until he figured out why.

            A sharp dislodging jerk to the side and a peek down into your faceplates pulled Jazz up short. Even his fans stalled in his chassis.

            You were recharging. 

            He couldn’t tell if he should be proud or miffed by that. After all, it was the emblematic outcome of a favorable overload and it surely meant he had the ability to overwhelm you just as effectively as you did him but Jazz was still conflicted. 

            Contributing in part was the distracting sight before him.

            And here he thought you were pretty before.

            Now—with your even, slow venting; your whispering engine; your heavy intoxicating spark energy radiating unabashedly into your field and drawing Jazz back under; your perfectly arched optic ridges--strong and intimidating when you weren’t softening them with your personality; your slightly parted lipplates, finally down in a resting frown that made you look at once older and yet, in combination with your offline optics, completely harmless despite the intense design of your features--Jazz found you were absolutely stunning. Whoever designed you needed a fragging standing ovation.  

            More than just your physical attributes, the TIC had never seen you so utterly peaceful.

            And neither had he presumed you were straining so hard until he could see you without all the tension lining your cables.

            It was a rather bitter revelation for a mech that prided himself on noticing even the little things.

            It wasn’t that he believed himself infallible. Rather he realized much too late something that should have been rather obvious from the very beginning.

             Interfacing wasn’t what you did to relax.

            This was: conversating and bantering. Cuddling and recharging...

            Those were what did it for you.

            He wished he’d known. Jazz was _not_ an affectionate mech. He wished he’d considered you a bit more before accepting your proposition.

            It wasn’t like you were a secretive person. It wouldn’t have been hard to guess your preferences if he hadn't been so eager to try you out. He should have paid more attention to your interactions.

            But those were all bygones. He was too far in to just break it off.

            …Wasn’t he?

            It’s only been two orns…

            …But that was long enough, right?

            He was sure you wouldn’t blame him if he did end things. You were an unusually understanding and forgiving individual. Still Jazz felt you’d deserve a real reason--something that wasn’t selfish and petty. You weren’t exactly a stranger, after all. He could admit that he cared about you more than he did the average ‘facing partner. And clashing natures aside, you’d been more than patient when indulging him in his relentless pursuit of his avenues of fun.

            Didn’t he owe you even a little in return for that? At the very least to say ‘thank you’ if not to show that he cared about _your_ needs, too? Even without the agreement? As simply a friend?

            He knew the answer and he didn’t like it much.

            He found a soothing balm in reminding himself that it was you who’d originally made the proposal.

            Sure, Jazz had suggested a berthmate but he hadn’t meant for it to be him. Not initially. His impulsiveness had come round to bite him in the aft this time but you were still largely at fault for expecting more from him than you _knew_ he would be comfortable giving.

           And then it hit him.

            Maybe you did know.

            In fact you had to because you never sought him out. You never asked for anything. You never made any requests…

            It had to be because you knew deep down in your spark that anything you wanted, Jazz would deny. Knew that he would run and leave you unfulfilled anyway because you were a relationship mech and he was not.

            Surely that was why you’d grown so frustrated with him as of late...

            But he’d been clear about where he stood on relationships, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t give thought to these things—about getting things that you like and doing things you liked to do--not in the way you’d like him to, at least.

            And you’d accepted that.

            You’d accepted so maybe he was overthinking this again like he had last time?

            Maybe.

            Most likely.

            ‘ _How annoyin’_ ’, he grumbled to himself.

            He didn’t have this problem.

            It needed to stop. To be resolved. To go away.

            You were going to ruin him; he just knew it. He could feel it as he gazed at you; so peaceful and content. You’d clearly been comfortable cuddling up to him. So much so that he felt almost _guilty_ for wanting to move.

            Irritation hammered its nails deeply into his tanks. Refusing to give in, Jazz sighed and resolutely stood up from the couch.

 

            “[Name],” he called. “Hey. C’mon, boot up.”

 

            Your optic ridges twitched down in the faintest sign of growing awareness though you were a long way from coherent. In fact, you were quickly falling back under. Jazz tilted his helm and couldn’t help but grin. It was hard trying to decide if he should let you have a few more breem or if he should just get you up now while cleaning would be easiest. In the end though, he knew what he had to do even if only half of him was willing to see it done, “Look, mech: Ah know yer comfy but it’s gonna get late soon and it’s prolly better mecha don’ see ya leavin’ mah house after a certain time.”

 

            You grumbled something in your throat and shoved his fingers away from your face, “Jazz…you’re too loud.”

 

            Jazz jerked back in surprise, “Well, slag, it’s mah house! Ah have a right ta be especially when Ah got a sleazeball makin’ a mess a’ my furniture.”

 

            Your groaning largely tuned out his little tirade and yet you still replied, “Your fault. You started it.” Before Jazz could make a comeback, you waved your servo into the air vaguely in his direction. Your optics were still too dim to see clearly. “Help me up. My legs are jelly.”

 

            The trip to his washroom was unusually silent. Jazz didn’t know what he should do in the midst of his latest decision. Did he tell you now that he wanted to stop? Did he wait until Dropkick was back to bring it up? After all, with you gone, he'd have precious little to distract himself from being stuck on base. He could hold off until then right?

            Besides, if he did it now, wouldn't it ruin the looseness he could literally see in your frame? Was it worth it?

            "What's wrong?" You asked after he’d tossed you a ridiculously thick and soft cleansing pad to use when you finished soaking up heat from your spot on the floor in the corner of his shower. You caught it without looking away from where you imagined Jazz’s optics would be. Unbeknownst to you, they were actually avoiding yours rather vehemently…

            Or maybe not so discreetly…His visor _was_ on, wasn’t it? Your sudden question echoing in the steamy expanse had certainly jolted him back to the presence, “What?”

 

           You hummed and flickered your field, quite indifferent to his attempted diversion. Jazz grumbled and turned away. “Do you need to cry again?”

 

            “Get off it, mech.”

 

            “I was being serious but if that’s your response I’ll take it as a solid ‘no’.” You rose to your knees rather clumsily and lathered up the sponge to thoroughly clean yourself. “So. What is it? Don’t bother pretending it’s nothing either because I can feel the difference. Usually I’d wait until you wanted to bring it up but it’s about me, isn’t it?”

 

             Irritation broiled unbidden in his spark. He _really_ didn’t like being so easily picked apart. Just another reason for him to write this thing off as a lost cause. To separate himself from you in order to feel secure again.

            But just the fact that you were so capable of reading him without any apparent effort on your part tickled his processors no matter how much he wished otherwise. It was as his creators had always said: curiosity truly was a perilous thing for the Polyhexian. 

            He believed it, too, because suddenly Jazz didn’t want to send you away—not _yet_ anyway--even though reasonably he knew it was the best course of action.

            He had to get his answers first. He needed to get to the bottom of you. To figure out how you stripped him down to his bare protoform and find a way combat it once he discovered it.  

            The irony wasn’t lost on him—that he’d have never noticed your strange idiosyncrasies if he hadn’t ever agreed to interface with you; that he’d have to maintain this arrangement if ever he wanted to unravel your coding.  

            He could do it, of course.

            He’d have to.

            There was no choice.

            Until his second returned to duty, until he could fall back into his normal flow of operations, until he could feel secure again, and until he didn’t need you to help do it…

            He could wait. He had to.

            And until then…

            Well.

            “Sorta,” Jazz admitted after a lengthy debate with himself.

 

            "Should I be worried?” You wondered casually.

 

            “Nah,” Jazz decided. At least on that front. There was one thing he wanted to clear up now though if he was going to try keeping this up for a while longer. “I’s jus’ ya tried ta kiss meh earlier an’ I jus’ want it known that’s not sumthin’ Ah’m cool wit.”

 

            Your optics brightened and your lips parted. For a while you seemed at a complete loss for words. Then you found them and you sputtered, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

 

            Jazz couldn’t help but chuckle and flare out his field, “‘S’all right. Jus’ figured we should hash out things like that as we come ‘cross ‘em.”

 

            “Fair enough,” you agreed readily, field swinging fiercely between regret and mortification. 

 

            “Aww, [Name], it took this long ta get ya cables ta fin’lly loosen up and ya goin’ and tanglin’ ‘em up again,” Jazz chastised with an easy grin. “Ya were adorable, mech. It's jus’ not fer me, yeah?”

 

            “Got it,” you promised. Jazz appreciated how seriously you took the stipulation even if he felt your severity was a little too much. Were his preferences _that_ important to you? Maybe he should offer something in return?

 

            Hesitantly, and more uncertainly than he’d care to admit to anyone Jazz spoke, “An’ ya should lemme know what ya do an’ don’t like. What’s good fer ya in tha berth an’…Ah guess, even outside of it iffen ya don’ always wanna ‘face when we hang out.”

 

            “...Does it make you uncomfortable that we have different libidos?”

 

            Jazz only _just_ managed to keep from flipping the switch from irate to livid. His expression threatened to contort. Naturally his visor would have covered most of it. Problem was he didn’t have much faith in its abilities at the moment. Were you telepathic or something? Was it plastered somewhere on his frame? What was it? Because he couldn’t tell _how_ you’d picked that out from his words.

            Jazz turned away into the spray, hoping against hope it would be enough to make him seem sufficiently casually distracted when he responded, “Does it bother _you_?”

 

            “Not really,” you hummed and ruffled your plating to let in more solvent. “Is that what’s bothering you?” Jazz’s frown deepened a little until you pressed your field against his again. This time it was imbedded with that soothing quality that made Jazz’s helm go blank and his chassis feel all warm and fuzzy. “It doesn’t bother me that you like to interface more than I do. It wouldn’t even bother me if you came to me just to work off a charge without worrying about mine.”

 

            Jazz’s plating rippled dubiously. Who could possibly be so willfully selfless when it came to pleasure? Even the saboteur would expect at least _something_ in return for catering to your every whim had he been so inclined to do so. But you merely grinned at him. You helm tilted as your field fluttered knowingly. “It takes a bit more effort to get the same result from me with interfacing than it does with you. _That’s_ what does bother me.” The teasing atmosphere lingered for a bit longer before it fell away. It wasn’t so sudden it made Jazz nervous though it did bid him pay close attention. “Don’t go through all the trouble of getting me hot and ready and then leave me unsatisfied. It’s annoying. I’d rather you just come to me to work off yours and if you want to return the favor later like today every now and then, do that.”

 

            “…” Jazz didn’t really know what to say in response. He was used to giving pointers to his partners, not receiving them. He couldn’t even get angry this time. Instead he found himself trying rather valiantly to stave off mild embarrassment even though you weren’t trying to make a big deal of it.

            It was to be expected. You couldn’t know how often the saboteur was praised for his ability to please his partners. It kind of hurt to hear the opposite. He found he could only take a chip from your processors and apologize. What else could he say to break past this sudden block?

 

            Thankfully you only smiled and waved it away courteously, “I’ll let you in on what I’m doing to unwind those cycles you decide to jump me if you want to join me to pay me back for lack of a better phrase; but if you want to satisfy me with just interfacing then you’re going to have to put in a bit more work, sweetspark.”

 

            Self-consciousness threatened to paralyze the mech. It helped that you’d switched back to your teasing lilt though he was determined to charge through the feeling before it could settle in, “Then why’re ya always so tense whenever Ah come ‘round?”

 

            You flared your field incredulously, “You mean besides the fact that your appearance _always_ coincides with being propositioned in the middle of a crowd of mecha? Correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t this supposed to be fairly secretive?”

 

           “Ah mean it’s s’not everyone’s business.” He flicked his field against yours apologetically but you simply chuckled and pressed back fondly as you moved for the drying vat. The machine lit up dimly as it registered your presence. Slots opened up along the cylindrical sides and a moment later gusts of hot air circled around your frame.

 

            “Then you’ll forgive me if I’m not possessed of the skills to vanish without a trace at a moment’s notice!”

 

            Jazz grinned cheekily, reassured by your untroubled outlook, “Ah could teach ya. Ah’ve gotta start sessions soon with the new recruits anyways. Ya could stop by and pick up a few things.”

 

            “Yes, and add additional training on top of the list of things my SOs want me to do? I think I’ll pass, thanks,” you hummed.

 

            Jazz’s spark leapt as the conversation veered in a promising direction—especially considering it was in the direction he’d been curious about from the very beginning, “Is _that_ what’s got ya wires in a bundle?”

 

            “Have _you_ tried building a state of the art training facility from scratch with increasingly scarce building materials? It’s not so easy if you want to make the place last longer than an orn without constant maintenance. I don’t know _why_ they would approve this project without giving us the proper tools to get it done.”

 

            Jazz frowned. “That’s strange,” he commented as he finished rinsing his valve and took your place in the dryer. It didn’t take long to dry with such a nice machine.

 

            “It’s ridiculous. Sergeant Sleepsong says the orders have been going out for groons now and yet nothing’s coming in. It’d be one thing if we couldn’t get processed materials but now I don’t even have the  _raw_ _bits_ to _make_ materials out of. It’s driving me insane, going in to work every cycle and trying to pretend like there’s something I can do to fix the situation when _everybody knows_ there’s no helping it…”

 

            Your shoulders shifted in protest. Your fingers, loosely curled and drawn up slightly to your chassis, bore the half-healed marks of cuts and wounds and scratches and scrapes caused by heavy lifting and heat damage and frost burns…His optics narrowed at the sudden discovery--previously hidden from him by your near-constant movement.

            There were even more lining your arms and your thighs and one unfortunate blemish just at the side of your left optic ridge…It was tiny and blended in very well with your distracting paintwork but he could see them now.

            Were they all from work? Was that what you were talking to the femme about earlier? An injury? He’d have to check in on that, “Ah don’t imagine that’s easy ta deal with every cycle. Ah can see why ya’re so high-strung.”

 

            “I’m _not_ high-strung,” you corrected as you followed him out of the spacious room. “I am overwhelmed.”

 

            “Same difference,” he responded as he stopped by his berthroom to empty out his subspace from work that cycle. He planned to hit the dining hall after. His energy levels were low.

 

            You followed him closely, ready to start ranting, but Jazz clicked his vocalizer rhythmically to grab your attention. “Tell ya what: Ah’ll put tha project on hold ‘til we figure out what tha problem is.”

 

            Sentinel wouldn’t be happy to learn of that. He’d sent Jazz to Protihex to create an entire brigade of stealth combatants as the current tactics were proving ineffective against the Decepticons. The sooner Jazz could provide capable fighters, the sooner he could go back to his relatively normal life. That’s what he wanted more than anything and there was a certain urgency in pushing through the items on his checklist but there was still no use in doing things half-way. It’d just get him punished and countless mecha would pay with their lives for it. No, Sentinel would just have to wait a little longer. And so would Jazz. “‘Til then, Ah wan’ ya ta relax an’ catch up on recharge ‘cuz when the problem’s fixed, ya gonna have a lotta work ta do.”

 

            Relief seemed to war with sudden urgency in your frame. The sharp brightening of your optics and the subtle stiffening in your shoulders…he could just tell you were already trying to map out what lied ahead, trying to shift ideas around for it. You’d been perusing the blueprints for the center long before Jazz had even finalized them. It wasn’t a hard deduction to make. The monochrome mech grinned and shoved you backwards onto his berth, “Ah didn’ say all that fer ya ta start workin’ already.”

 

            You didn’t immediately respond. You were distracted by the cushions cradling your frame. They were much softer and fluffier than the ones on his couch. You just barely stopped yourself from turning over and snuggling into them. That soft euphoric smile took over your face again unbidden. Jazz’s fuel pump lurched harshly in response.

            He'd seen mecha lose their minds over luxury items. They were usually the poor, the bereft, and the forgotten. He’d seen them fall into trances when they were allowed to indulge in even the most basic of customary commodities. He’d seen them curl up in the soft caresses of a real berth for the first time and drift away in its comfort. It usually left him feeling painfully melancholy especially since they’d seemed so satisfied with little more than a metal slab covered in mesh.

            Jazz’s berth was infinitely more comfortable and you weren’t nearly so poorly maintained so maybe he was biased but never had any of them looked so perfectly suited to such. In fact, at this moment in time--with your frame sprawled over its expanse; limbs held out and away from your body, shining with a combination of the white of your paint, the wax from the vat, and the blazing glare from the afternoon sun; optics dim and warm; lips curled into a happy smile; all of which made you look absolutely stunning--Jazz couldn’t imagine you belonged anywhere else.

            Suddenly, those memories of you wandering in the dirt and the brush—they were fundamentally wrong. You didn’t belong there. You were too picturesque, too pretty, almost ethereal. Resplendent. Like a deity, he could totally understand someone devoting themselves to providing you extravagances solely to witness this captivating response you would undoubtedly bestow upon your provider should they manage to please you. He found himself offering without conscious thought, “Ya can come recharge here if ya get too stressed and fin’ ya can’t power down”.

 

            And Primus! His sensor horns had to still be functioning on full-blast if your field was barreling over his own so hard. It was like a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated happiness washing over his frame; sinking into his plating and making his own spark hum. He pushed through the overwhelming assault and stamped down harshly on his frame’s reaction.

            You didn’t seem to notice.

            You were still drowsy. It showed in the dim flickering of your optics and the faint whizzing sound in your chassis, fighting to slow down in spite of your repeated overrides demanding they keep functioning normally.

 

            “Thank you,” you said. It was a simple response and yet the deep sincerity lacing your words struck Jazz with an intensity he couldn’t explain. “But I think I’ll have to limit myself to weekends lest you ruin me for my own berth.” You tilted your helm against the pillow imploringly. Jazz ignored just as you did how your optics flickered in pleasure. “Join me?”

 

              And Jazz actually faltered. His spark started spinning so fast he felt faint. He knew he didn’t want to, knew that it wouldn’t lead to anything good, and yet he found he didn’t quite have the words to deny you. Horrified at his own speechlessness--terrified at the frantic spinning in his chest--Jazz conjured every last bit of control he had left in his frame and forced a casual smile before stiffly turning away.

 

             He didn’t remember if he’d ever told you where he’d fled to. He couldn’t recall if, amidst his racing thoughts, he’d done anything he should have to live with the aftermath of this development. Either way, he knew he could not afford to stay with you as you were and instead surrounded himself with the familiar mundane routines of the mess hall dinner service.

            And maybe Primus had a smidge of mercy set aside just for him because when he returned maybe a joor later, sufficiently calmed and ready to try engaging you again, you had gone.

            And Jazz cursed himself for almost wishing you had not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1--A peri is actually something of a mythical creature in our own world--like an angel or fairy in other parts of the world if memory serves. Still, 'angel' felt a little too human so I replaced it with this word that seemed like it would fit with the alienness of their vocabulary a bit better.
> 
> 2-- It also helped the painful memory files drift back into his subconscious though he wouldn't think on that until much much later.
> 
> 3--Cognates is just my own word for what we could consider brothers and sisters in their society. I was going to use something like co-creation but it didn't seen quite warm enough for the relationship dynamic I wanted to portray. 
> 
> I don't know why I was so nervous to post this once I'd finished it. Let me know what you think if you'd like!  
> We see Jazz struggling a little bit with why he actually cares at all. Part of it he knows is because you're a friend. Part of it's also because you're a great and undeniably necessary receational pass-time that he's not yet bored with and so doesn't want to lose. But there's something strange about you that even Jazz's rationallizing can't work through and unfortunately for him, he might not even be the one able to uncover what it is...  
> Anyway, that's all for this update! Anyone looking for news about updates from my other stories, don't fret, I'm working on those, too. ;) I've also got a few new projects I want to test out on my friends before I put them here so keep a lookout for those, too, if you like! 
> 
> Thanks again! See you next time!

**Author's Note:**

> This first few chapters are going to be used to provide a little background for how the two of you established yourselves together and how you fit in as a figure in the Transformers universe. The dynamic between you will become more apparent in the following chapters though I hoped I managed to provide a decent idea in this first one.  
>  
> 
> Thank you again for reading! As always be warned that it may take a while to update. Until next time! (Which is likely tomorrow but for a different story. I really do have too many of these floating around inside my head. ^_^u)


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